


We Want War

by Shatteredsand



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Derek/Stiles - Freeform, F/M, Guns, Killing people, M/M, More angst, Pack vs Hunters, Puppy Piles, Secret Relationship, The way the show is Derek/Stiles, Urban warfare, Violence, War, Werewolf!Danny, Werewolf!Stiles, but more, pack!feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:39:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 25
Words: 61,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shatteredsand/pseuds/Shatteredsand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The battle lines have been drawn. Armies drafted and trained. The war is coming. </p><p>Whose side are you on?</p><p>**Half on hiatus, Half under edit*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. They're Coming

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place about a month after Season One's Finale, disregards Season Two's Premier and the Lydia bite. Mostly because I don't want to try and figure out what's going on with that whole She lived but she's not a werewolf thing. Too complicated.
> 
> There will be a lot of perspective shifts in this story, simply because it involves all the characters to some degree or another. So you'll get to see a bit of everyone at one point or another, but expect a lot of Derek and a lot of Stiles. Thus, the character filters.
> 
> I don't own "Teen Wolf".

                The death of an Argent, Derek knows, will not be satisfied with blood for blood, life for life. Kate had been insane, had betrayed the Code hunters were supposed to uphold. But managing transgressions is an internal affair, not to be meddled in by outside forces. Such as a vengeful and psychotic Alpha, for example. 

                They’ll be coming. Argents from all across the nation. They’re coming to claim vengeance of their own. Death to the werewolves. War on the Pack. 

                Genocide.

                They’ll be coming.

                His pack isn’t strong enough to withstand the coming storm. There are so few of them, and it’s _fractured_. Scott, still striving to be human, to be normal. Still clinging to his old life instead of embracing his new one. And Jackson, so arrogant. Derek may have given him the Bite, but he is not Wolf, not _Pack_. Not yet. Jackson’s allegiance remains only to himself and his own selfish desires.

                They will not survive this way. _Cannot_ survive this way. 

                Derek is Alpha, it is his responsibility to forge his Pack. To take individuals and make them part of the whole, stronger than the sum of its parts. He needs to create unity from conflict, draw strength from weakness. 

                But he doesn’t know how. Derek has never been a leader, was never meant to lead. He had killed Peter for Laura, not for power. He is not a shaper of men and animals. He doesn’t know how to force Jackson and Scott to set aside their old hatreds and become Pack. Doesn’t know how to make them understand that everything from the Before is irrelevant in the Now. 

                Because _now_ this is a war, and they’re already losing.

                The Shift is more painful now. The cost of an Alpha’s power is paid in pain, but if it can save his Pack, Derek will pay it gladly. An agonized and anger growl bursts from lips and throat still in transition, low and threatening. But when it’s done, Derek raises his face towards the night and lets loose a terrifying howl. It is a warning. It is a demand. 

                Birds take flight, small woodland creatures scatter, deer and elk bolt. All eager away to be away from such a profound predator, and all knowing that should he give chase none would escape. For several moments there is absolute silence. Even the smallest of insects knowing better than to do anything to make themselves known. The woods are still, and Derek is surrounded by the dead silence of his own making.

                Then, an answering call. It echoes across the night, spanning the distance between Beta and Alpha as if it were inches instead of miles. It is anxious and only a few octaves from afraid. Unwilling to heed the call, but unable to resist.

                Scott.

                The second call is loud and brash. Arrogance personified in a single, unrepentant sound. Close. And approaching. Coming to heel, not out of loyalty but a warped sense of superiority. As if a single Beta could ever hope to match any Alpha, let alone the one that had given it the Bite.

                Jackson.

                Derek opens his maw again, releases another terrible, rumbling howl. The answers come more quickly this time. Jackson first, and much closer than before. Nearly here. Then Scott, still some distance away but closing in. Derek estimates his arrival in a few minutes, Jackson in less.

                As if on cue, Jackson comes bounding out of the tree line. He slows to a stop, rising to both his legs before the still lupine form of his Alpha. “What do you want, Derek? I was doing just fine out on my own tonight.”

                Such disrespect in other packs would have ended in the younger man’s death, but Derek cannot afford to lose any of _his_ pack right now.  That does not mean his insolence can be overlooked, however. Derek doesn’t want to be the iron-fisted dictator, but Jackson has to learn that being Wolf does not mean he is above everything. He still answers to the laws of nature, and the laws of Derek Hale.

                With an almost careless gesture Derek slaps Jackson, making sure to dig his claws deep into the flesh of his face. Jackson falls and swears, but Derek lays his massive paw over his chest before the Beta can rise again. Lowering his monstrous jaws to hover a fraction of an inch from the pounding cardioid in Jackson’s throat, Derek allows the wolf to fade. 

                “Having the Bite doesn’t make you top dog, Jackson. I’m your Alpha. That means you treat me like a king. One who happens to have a very volatile temper and a fondness for execution.”

                “You’re the Queen of Hearts, I get it.” Jackson snaps.

                “That mouth is going to get you killed, Jackson.” Derek sighs, pushing his hand through the hard muscle of the boy’s chest. Not too deep. He’s trying to make a point, not kill the arrogant asshat. The scream is very, very human. Too much pain for Jackson to even consider shifting. Not that it would have helped him any. Derek’s glowing red eyes glare harshly into Jackson’s human pale green. “I am your Alpha. You will obey.”

                A pitiful sound struggles from Jackson’s lips. The whimper of the whipped pup. Derek remembers the sound, though it has been years since his father, his old Alpha, had drawn the noise from his throat. The will of Alpha cannot be disregarded. If Peter had stopped playing games sooner, revealed himself and compelled his and Scott’s obedience, things would have ended much worse than they did. And considering this ending has brought war to their door, Derek doesn’t like to think about the possibility of _worse_.

                Derek pulls his hand from Jackson as Scott arrives. He hesitates when the scent of blood, heavy and thick and Jackson’s, bombards his senses. Good. At the very least the past few months have taught Scott to be cautious if nothing else. One less thing for Derek to have to drill into the hardheaded moron.

                Slowly, the wolf fades from Scott’s features. “Everything okay?”

                “No!” Jackson shouts, blood still dripping slowly down his face and chest as he climbs to his feet. “This asshole just had his hand inside my fucking chest!”

                “Silence.” Derek growls, watching with no small amusement as Jackson’s mouth snaps shut. “Stay.”

                That one is directed at both Betas. Scott, who had been edging backwards, freezes. Jackson, who had taken a single, threatening step forward, becomes rooted to the spot. Derek sighs, fighting off an expected wave of exhaustion. He had hoped this would go smoother. That with a whole month to run around without constraints, Jackson would have tempered his distain and rebellion. That after all the time and effort he had spent training him to survive, Scott would have come to trust him. 

                They’ve hunted together. Killed together. Bound the Pack as one to him and he to the Pack. Derek isn’t sure that it’s supposed to be this hard to do something as simple as have a pack meeting. But maybe it is. Maybe being part of a pack means struggle. He doesn’t know. He’s been a lone wolf for so long, and his family, his Pack, were decimated before he was old enough to have a say in pack politics.

                “What did you do?” Scott asks, voice scared. “And how come Jackson isn’t healing?”

                “I’m the Alpha. My word is law.” Derek shrugs. He has to pretend that this doesn’t bother him, that he’s above the petty disputes of Betas. Because if he shows weakness, they won’t follow him. He has to be strong. For all their sakes. “But it’s a heavy handed tactic, used only by the most brutal or ineffective Alphas. I hope I won’t need to use it again. And wounds from my hands don’t heal as quickly because my punishments are not to be forgotten quickly.”               

                “Why did you…er, _call_?” Scott swallows thickly, and Derek can smell the fear on him.

                “Because.” Derek sighs again; he is not suited to leadership. “Because the Argents have called in reinforcements. Because my uncle, crazed as he was, was stupid enough to start a war.”

                “ _War_?” Scott screeches. A similarly panicked sound squawks from Jackson’s throat, unable to be voiced.

                “He killed an Argent. In front of two other Argent witnesses who lived to talk about it. He could have done nothing, let the Hunters take care of justice in their own way the way they have for generations when one of theirs breaks the Code. But he didn’t. And I can guarantee that the rest of the Clans, regardless of what one member might feel, are not going to stop hunting this Pack until we’re all dead.”

                “No.” Scott shakes his head. “No, no, no, _no_. Alison wouldn’t let her dad do that. Wouldn’t let him hurt me.”

                “She’s not going to have a choice. Between her and, oh, let’s say fifty highly trained Hunters, who do you think is going to be calling the shots, dumbass?”

                “What are you going to do? How do you make it stop?”

                “Make it stop?” A mocking smile twists Derek’s lips. “Well, we could ever so politely offer all our heads on a platter and hope they finish it quick. Or we kill them all first.”

                “NO!”

                “Allison excluded. We’re not monsters, Scott. Haven’t you learned that by now? Their code is to hunt those that hunt them. I’m only suggesting we do the same.”

                “No. I won’t. Allison will never forgive me if I start killing people. Especially if they’re her family.”

                “Option three then. We do what Laura and I did six years ago. Run.”

                “We can’t run! Our whole lives are here! What do we tell our parents? What do I tell Stiles?”

                More strangled almost words from Jackson.

                “Speak.” Derek says. Because while this is technically his decision and he could _make_ them go, he doesn’t want to do that. He has a responsibility to do what is in the best interest of the Pack and all its members. If Scott and Jackson, who _are_ the Pack, refuse to leave, Derek won’t make them. Such a move would only breed dissent and, likely, get him murdered in his sleep by two wrathful Betas.

                “You want us to run? Dude, we’re the top of the fricking food chain. _They_ should be running from _us_.”

                “That’s the kind of thinking that’ll get you killed.” Derek sneers. “Three wolves against an army trained from birth to hunt us down and kill us. We’re werewolves, not immortals.”

                “Then make more. Turn the whole damn town. Let’s see them fight against that!” Jackson’s eyes have the sickly sheen of fanatical mania. The kind of delusion that has led hundreds of men to pointless war and pointless death. Derek had been afraid of this, that Jackson would see only the power of the Wolf without the weakness. Arrogance and the Bite don’t mix well.

                “No.” Derek’s eyes flare crimson, the command of the Alpha lurking in his voice. “Packs are small and mobile, or they’re dead. Any more than dozen and they become unstable. We lose mobility, and that’s how they get us. You will _never_ voice that suggestion, or any variant of it, again.”

                “ _Fine_.” There is nothing but distain in the words, but Derek has no control over that. He can force the Beta to obey, but not to respect. 

                “If we stay, we’ll have to fight. Those are the options. Stay and fight, maybe die. Or run, now while we still have a hope getting away.”

                “I’m staying.” Scott declares, eyes burning amber with the force of his belief. He wants to be here, believes he needs to be. 

                “Like hell I’m running.” Jackson sneers. Superiority complex painted across every line of his face.

                “Then we fight. Do you understand what that means? Selective recruiting, more training, the end of your lives as you knew them. No more lacrosse, you need to be here. No more parties, you need to be here. From this moment on, every waking moment outside of school is spent _right_ _here_. Preparing for the bloodbath that’s coming for us. Training you to survive.” Derek blinks, surprised at himself. He can’t remember the last time he strung so many words together at a time. 

                “Sounds like more fun than lacrosse anyways.” Jackson shrugs.

                “If it means staying, then okay.” 

                “Okay. You guys finish out practice for the week, and then you walk away. And until then, we meet here after practice. Clear?”

                Mutual nods of assent, but neither looks too happy with the idea.

                This is just the beginning. This is how the war starts. And Derek knows that the chance of them all surviving it is almost nonexistent. But this is the decision of his Pack, and Derek will see it through until his dying breath. Hidden beneath the sound of his pounding heart, he can hear it.

                The rhythm of the war drums.

                They’re coming.

 

* * *

 

_“They killed Kate, turned children, and **butchered** half a dozen people.” Chris says, voice dead. He forces himself to forget that the remaining Wolves, the Wolves he’s about to declare war on, had killed Peter Hale. That only one member of the pack had shed human blood, that the others were innocent of wrongdoing. That Allison **loved** one of them. Because they are guilty of everything wrong in this world. Because they had killed Kate. His baby sister Kate. They had taken someone he loved from him, and he will not stand for it. “I’m calling a war council.”_

_There’s dead silence over the other line. A war council hasn’t been called in over a hundred years. To declare war on the lycanthropes has only been done thrice in their entire history. It is only done in the most extreme cases against the most vicious and bloodthirsty werewolves. Chris knows the cost of such a war. Dozens of lives, civilian and hunter and lycan alike. Chaos in the streets the likes of which a small town like Beacon Hills has never seen. Open warfare. Streets turned into battlefields. Homes hollowed out and abandoned. Hospitals overrun with casualties. Supplies commandeered. Families ripped apart as the battle lines are drawn._

_“We’re coming.”_

                Chris lets out a heavy sigh. He made that call nearly a month ago and the wheels are in motion now. He couldn’t stop them even if he wanted to. The Clans are coming, and war is following fast on their heels. He has the perfect case for wiping out the remaining members of the Hale pack, even if Peter is already dead. It was his Pack, created from him. The line is tainted with his sins and, god help them, they are all going to burn for it.

                They’re coming.

                _But Allison loves him_ , whispers a traitorous part of himself. _And they’ve hurt no one. They’re_ innocent _._

                Chris shuts out the sound of his conscience, and prepares himself to begin and end a war. There’s nothing more to be done. The decision has already been made. The council of clans will meet, will hear his case, and declare war. He cannot stop it. He doesn’t _want_ to stop it. Those monsters had killed Kate. Their leader had slaughtered innocents. The fact that they had turned against him in the end means nothing. 

                They’re coming.

                The sins of the father are revisited upon the son. Peter fathered the line and his sons will pay for his crimes. Vengeance will not be sated with reason. Rage will not calm before logic. Hatred will not bow to love.

                They’re coming.

                And God help them all when they arrive. God help _him_ for summoning them.

                He whispers fervently, a sudden regretful prayer. “Father, forgive me for I know not what I do. Forgive them their trespasses and welcome them into Your holy embrace. They are neither man nor animal, but they are Your creatures. They’ll be arriving shortly, if we have anything to say about it.”

                They’re coming to kill them all. And he’s done this. In a moment of rage and grief and pain. He’s signed their death warrants. Played judge and jury and executioner. He’s done this. This is his fault. And he cannot undo it. Cannot stop the approaching storm.

                The rhythm of the war drums echoes silently in the distance, as certain and real as the earth beneath his feet. 

                They’re coming.


	2. Swelling Ranks

* * *

“Yo.” Stiles answers his phone without looking, mostly because he doesn’t want to have to open his eyes just yet. He’ll wait for the inevitably terrible/shocking news that’s likely on the other end of this conversation. It’s late and he’s in bed, half asleep. But since his best friend turned into a werewolf and started helping another werewolf while secretly dating the daughter of a werewolf hunter, Stiles has become disturbingly accustomed to phone calls and unexpected guests at strange hours. Most of which in involve said terrible/shocking news. Or disgustingly mushy rambling about Allison. Stiles almost prefers the horror. Almost.

                “Unlock your window before I break it.” Derek’s voice growls ominously through the device, followed by a none too gentle rapping on the glass. The pane shudders in its frame. Stiles just sighs and gets out of bed. He should have known better than to try and have some sense of privacy. Ever since Scott’s furry little problem had made its appearance, his bedroom had become an odd sort of mecca for meetings involving the supernatural world.

                So he isn’t surprised that Derek Hale, former fugitive and current Pack Alpha, is beating on his window and demanding entrance. What he is, is _curious_. Derek’s uses for Stiles include punching bag, chauffer/get-away driver, and emergency amputation surgeon. But mostly punching bag.  For anything else, Derek’s first choice has always been Scott.

                But he unlocks the window and shoves it up, allowing the wolf into his room. “What’s up, Almighty Alpha. How may I serve your wolfy, wolfy needs tonight? Running from the cops? _Hiding_ from the cops? De-poisoning your arm after another unfortunate wolfsbane accident?”

                “You can start by shutting the hell up.” Derek snaps, eyes flashing red. Yeah. Stiles has never regretted his tendency to ramble so much as he has whenever Derek Hale happens to be in the same room as him and his babbling mouth. “And then you can take off your shirt.”

                “Wha?” Is his brilliant response. To complete his articulate thought is a blank, wide-eyed stare and gaping mouth. He then does his best impression of a goldfish, opening and closing his mouth ineffectively while trying to make words, any words, come out.

                “Take. Off. Your. Shirt.” Derek repeats, slowly, like he thinks Stiles is an idiot.

                “Um…look. You’re a good, well, decent, well, mostly alright kinda-sorta almost friend maybe thing. But I just don’t think—” The rest of Stiles’ sentence is lost in the barbaric fumbling that ensues when Derek loses patience and rips the offending garment off. “Or you could just do that.”

                The concession is muttered and annoyed, but he’s more than a little scared. He has no idea what’s going on, or why he has to be topless, or why Derek is eyeing him like a piece of meat. And, honestly, it’s freaking him the hell out.

                “You’ll do.” Derek says simply with the slightest nod.

                “I’ll do for _what_?” Stiles forces the words out past the heavy lump that has lodged itself firmly in his throat. His own heart is pounding in his ears, and he knows Derek can hear it too.

                “Don’t worry.” And Derek does the single most frightening thing Stiles has ever seen him do. The wolf _smiles_.

                “Derek?”

                “It’ll only hurt for a little while.” Before Stiles can process the words and what they mean, Derek lunges forward.

                Pain. Deep, throbbing pain. Sharp, penetrating agony. Something warm and wet and thick slides down his side.

                Derek pulls away, mouth smeared with crimson, and it takes Stiles a second to put two and two together. Werewolf. Pain. Bite. Blood.

                “You!” Stiles screeches, forgetting that his dad maybe slumbering upstairs, forgetting that he had nearly taken the Bite before, forgetting that if he’s going to be a werewolf there isn’t a pack he’d rather be in, forgetting everything. “You bit me!” Stiles stares down at the jagged circle of teeth marks now decorating his abdomen. A dozen neat puncture wounds, digging deep into the flesh. And blood. Ruby red and ghastly garnet. Seeping out to trail down to his waistband, now stained scarlet. “You _bit_ me!!”

                “Welcome to the Pack.” Derek smirks that terrifying smile again, and dashes out the window.

                Slowly, still mostly in shock, Stiles raises a hand to apply pressure to the wound. He remembers that that’s what you’re supposed to do. Apply pressure. Staunch the flow. Slow the bleeding. His feet stumble and falter as he puts one in front of the other. Unsteady footsteps draw him closer to the bathroom at the end of the hall. He hopes his father isn’t home. Or doesn’t wake up, if he is. Stiles can’t remember if he’s working late tonight or not.

                He leaves a bloody smear of a handprint on the door, but he’ll worry about that later. Assuming he doesn’t, you know, _die_. Because Peter Hale had made it clear that surviving was not guaranteed. There’s a chance that Derek just killed him, he just hasn’t fallen down yet.

                Shaking hands pull the first aid kit out from under the sink. The bleeding has slowed but not stopped, and he’s not sure if that’s normal or not. Scott’s wasn’t bleeding the day after, and healed completely before the next night, but Stiles doesn’t know when it’s supposed to stop. He never thought he’d _need_ to know.

                He cleans the wound slowly, wondering if there’s any point in wasting the antiseptic. Either the bite will kill him or he’ll turn and never have to worry about infections again. He puts the bottle back, and focuses on wiping away the blood off his skin so the adhesive will stick.

                Taking a deep breath, Stiles closes the kit and washes the blood off the pristine white casing. He stows it back beneath the sink. Then grabs a washrag and Clorox from the closet and sets to work on the bloody smear on the door, his wits coming back to him now that the shock of his potentially impending death sentence has started to fade. He works furiously, throwing himself into the task so he won’t have to think about what all of this means.

                Still holding the rag, he rushes back to his room. Peeks through the window to see if his dad’s cruiser is parked in the driveway. It isn’t, and Stiles breathes a sigh of relief. One thing, at least, he can stop worrying about. As for the rest….

                Stiles strips off his sleep pants and quickly pulls on another pair and a shirt. With a fortifying breath, he goes about gathering all the proof of what took place in his room. The shredded t-shirt, the bloody pants and rag. He carries the evidence downstairs at a run, eager to be rid of it all. He shoves the items into a garbage bag, grabs some vegetable oil from the pantry, pockets a handful of matches, and slips out the back. He runs for fifteen minutes before deciding he’s gone far enough.

                He drops the bag and douses it with the oil. Steps back and strikes a match. Tosses it, and watches the bag of bloody cloth go up in flames. He lights and tosses the remaining four matches as well, just to be sure. He watches until the charred embers burn out and everything that could speak to Derek’s actions are nothing more than ash. Then he turns around and goes home.

                What the hell else can he do?

* * *

                Derek can’t get the taste of Stiles out of his mouth. The sweet coppery taste of blood and the salty-smooth texture of his skin. He wonders if, maybe, he shouldn’t have bitten the boy. Stiles had been helping already, as a human. But Derek knows he had wanted the Bite in the deepest, darkest recess of his soul. He would never admit to being jealous of what Scott had been given, but he wanted it. So Derek gave it to him.

                And Derek honestly can’t think of a better candidate for the pack than the human already knows them and fights on their behalf. He’d turn Allison too if he thought he could get away with it without Chris Argent putting a silver wolfsbane bullet between his eyes; hell, he still might. If she and Scott ask for it.

                Derek shakes his head to clear his head of thoughts about Stiles and Allison. He still has work to do tonight. Adding Stiles to the pack isn’t enough. He needs more. And his choices must be wise; he cannot risk another Beta like Jackson, self-centered to the point of disloyalty to the pack, or Scott, alternating between resentful and loyal whenever it suits him. Or worse, to give the Bite only to watch the recruit die.

                His candidates must be strong enough to survive, intelligent enough to be useful, and unwaveringly loyal to him and the pack. And he has very little time to find them. He doesn’t know when the Argents will arrive, when the war will begin in earnest. But he knows it will be soon.

                He needs those that can be tempted with power, because he knows Scott will throw a hissy fit if he bites without permission. Which is probably something he should have thought of before surprising Stiles, but. The boy had wanted it; an unspoken request is _not_ necessarily an unheard one. It was a favor, a gift. And if Scott tries to bitch about it, well, Derek’s gotten really good at completely ignoring him when the whining starts.

                Derek shakes his head again, forces himself to stop thinking about Stiles again, and refocuses on his task. Those who can be tempted by the power of the Bite, but not consumed by it. Those who will be grateful for the chance to be more than they were, and thus unflinchingly loyal. Those who are strong enough to survive the Bite and fight in the coming war. It’s not a short or vague list, and Derek simply does _not_ have the time to be as cautious as he would like. He needs wolves, and he needs them _now_.

                So tonight he will hunt for a different kind of prey.

* * *

                Allison watches from her bedroom window as the long line of cars pull into her driveway. She counts no few than ten big, black SUVs. They come to a stop and in some weird choreographed maneuver everyone gets out at the same time. Five people to a car, ten cars, fifty new Hunters in town. This, Allison is sure, will not end well.

                Her first thought is where the hell are they all going to stay? Then she remembers she has more important things to worry about. Like the fact that fifty werewolf hunters just showed up in a town with three werewolves, including the one she happens to be madly in love with.

                She can’t imagine why they’re here. Peter Hale is dead. And Scott and Derek and Jackson haven’t broken the Code. They’re not monsters. They don’t need to die. There’s no reason for so many hunters to be here. Even if Derek’s pack was a threat, surely her dad and his men could take care of one Alpha and a couple of teenagers, right? So why are they here?

                She considers that they might have been called in to help fight against Peter, and just arrived too late to actually help. But that seems stupid because despite all the damage he’d done he’s still only one man…werewolf… _threat_.

                Letting her curiosity motivate her, she slips out of her room to, for lack of a better word, spy on her family. She tries to be quiet and unobtrusive, just a clueless teenager in her own home, nothing to pay any sort of attention to. The men standing in her house are all composed of hard edges. Just being in the same room as them makes her shiver.

                These are killers. Not crazy fanatics like Kate turned out to be, but cold and professional. Detached from the horrors of their work. They believe the cause is just and kill in the name of it, but they’re not _insane_.

                Allison almost wishes they were. That, at least, would make sense to her. Crazy people do crazy things. Like murdering people just because they’re a little different. But this. Allison doesn’t have an explanation for this. How they can kill so easily and not feel anything at all when the killing’s done.

                How can her family be so utterly and completely screwed up?

                “We’ll meet in the dining room. Beverly has prepared food and drink for you after your travels. And then we can get down to business.” Her father says, but he speaks without the tone of command usually omnipresent in his voice. He doesn’t sound submissive, but he doesn’t sound authoritative either. These men are not his superiors. They are not his soldiers.

                They’re his _equals_.

                And that scares Allison. Because it means that beneath his family-man façade and his fatherly love, beneath everything she had always thought of him, he’s just as cold as these men she doesn’t know. She hadn’t seen it before, not even when he came to stop Kate. But she’s seeing part of it now. In the way he moves, the way he talks. God, it’s even in his eyes, that frigid lack of compassion. This man is not her father. Not the father she knew anyway. This is someone else. Someone wearing his face like a cheap Halloween mask.

                His eyes find hers, and for the first time Allison sees the man who raised her for all that he is instead just the parts he allowed her to see. And then his eyes soften and his shoulders slump, just a little, and he’s exactly the same as he always was. But it’s too late. She’s seen him. Seen _all_ of him. And, however much she might want to, she can’t unsee it.

                “Allison, it’s late and a school night. You should go to bed.” It’s phrased as a suggestion, but it isn’t. And this is neither the time nor the place for a pointless act of defiance. He’s not going to let her listen in on the impending conversation. He’s not going to let her anywhere near anything having to do werewolves. Because she’s in love with the enemy, and he doesn’t trust her.

                Good. He shouldn’t. Because as soon as she has the chance, she’ll tell Scott everything she knows and anything she’s guessed. She’s not going to let him die just because he happened to get bitten. He didn’t ask for this, he doesn’t want it. And she not going to watch him die over something that isn’t his fault. Not for her family. Not for her father. Not for anything.

                “Sure, Dad.” Allison smiles like she has no idea what’s going and couldn’t care in the least. “Night.”

                “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

                The moment she’s back in her room, she calls Scott and tells him everything. She’s not supposed to talk to him anymore and there’s not much to go on right now, but at the very least he needs to know that there’s been an influx of hunters. She needs him to be safe.

                “I know. Derek thought this would happen.” He sighs when she finishes. “I kinda really hoped he was going to be wrong for once…”

                “What’s happening, Scott?”

                “In a word? War. The Argents are getting ready to go to war. Against us. Against the Pack.”

                “ _Why_? Peter’s dead. You guys didn’t break the Code.”

                “Mostly, according to Derek, because Peter killed Kate.”

                “But then we killed Peter!”

                “Doesn’t matter. I think it’s kinda a revenge thing.”

                “It’s a _stupid_ thing!”

                “That too.”

                “I love you.”

                “I love you too, Allison.”

                The line goes dead and Allison quickly deletes the call from her phone’s memory, wondering when everything got so complicated. Why does everything have to be so hard? It isn’t fair.

                She’s sixteen. She should be able to find a nice, sweet guy and fall in love. There aren’t supposed to be werewolves and her family aren’t supposed to be killers. She wants to awake up and realize that this just a dream. But she knows it doesn’t work like that.

                This is her reality.

                Her family’s about to declare war on her boyfriend. And there isn’t a damned thing she can do to stop them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think.


	3. Light of a New Day

The weak watercolor lights of dawn greet Stiles when he opens his eyes. Well, he isn’t dead yet. It takes him a second to remember why that of all things is his first thought in the morning. Then he sits up and is reminded via the pain in his side. 

                “Oh man, oh man, oh man…”Stiles groans the steady clam of shock from last night replaced with his more characteristic panic. He rips the bandage off. Yep, still there. Derek’s Bite in all its glory. So it wasn’t a dream, and this is happening. Okay. He can deal with this. He can be cool and calm and….

                “Holy fucking shit!” In a wild-eyed frenzy, Stiles searches for his phone. He rips half his room apart before he notices it’s right where he left it on the bedside table. And once he has it, he’s not sure who to call. Derek, so he can let the furry little bastard have a piece of his mind? Assuming he doesn’t hang-up in the first ten seconds. A doctor? Assuming they don’t smile politely and then give him his very own self-hug jacket. His dad? Scott?

                Yes. Scott. Because Scott has gone through this. Scott is a werewolf, and Scott will know what to do. It slips his mind that that statement is patently untrue, Scott’s catchphrase is “I don’t know what to do!”, and in the end it’s Stiles himself who ends up being the man with the plan. Because he’s freaking out right now. And he doesn’t know what to do. All his research is meaningless because he can’t make it applicable to himself. He’s not the guy that gets the Bite. He’s the clever and kind of weird sidekick, and this just doesn’t happen to _him_.

                But it did. And he needs his best friend.

                The call doesn’t go through. The line is busy. Of course, it’s busy. It’s always busy. Scott’s probably gushing early morning mush into Allison’s ear, and dammit, Scott is never there when he needs him.

                “Goddammit!” The profanity slips from his lips and he’s never sworn so much in his entire life, but he can’t seem to reel it back in at the moment. He’s freaking the fuck out, and he can’t stop. Can’t think. Can’t make sense of this whole twisted mess.

                There’s a knocking on his window, and Stiles can only think of one person who consistently uses his bedroom window like a revolving door. 

                Derek.

                Thank God. Or possibly, goddammit, take two. Stiles isn’t sure which, but he can’t bring himself to care. He needs answers and the surly werewolf outside his room is his best option for getting them. Even if he’s slightly psychotic and more than a little mean and an utter and complete asshole upon occasion.

                “It’s not locked.” Stiles says, the words both a greeting and an invitation. Derek lifts the dividing pane of glass and climbs in with the casual grace of his kind. 

                “You didn’t die.” He greets nonchalantly, as if he doesn’t care one way or the other. Maybe he doesn’t. Stiles is never really sure with Derek. How much is real and how much is pretend. 

                “Not yet. Who knows? Maybe I’ll keel over before my third period chemistry test.”

                “No. You survived. You’re Pack now.” 

                “Well. That’s nice. In that case.” And Stiles does something that, in some circles, may be considered suicidal. He punches Derek in the face. It’s not as dramatic as he’d hoped though. Derek doesn’t fall down or stumble backwards. He just takes the hit with a jaw made of freaking steel, and narrows his eyes a bit. Stiles doesn’t even _shift_. Not even a little. _Lame_. “Well, that was a bit anticlimactic...please don’t kill me!” Sardonic humor followed instantly by fear. Yep. Just another normal day for Stiles, new werewolf status notwithstanding.

                “I’m not going to kill you.” Derek rolls his eyes before his hand lashes out and clutches Stiles’ shirt. He jerks the boy close and growls in that patently menacing way of his. “I’ll give you a pass because I shouldn’t have Bit you without warning. But that’s it. Next time, I’ll shove my foot so far up your ass you’ll have toes for teeth.”

                “Right. Yep. Toes, teeth, ass thoroughly kicked. We are on the same page.” Stiles says, the beginnings of a good ramble only a breath away.

                “Good.” Derek says pushing him away before Stiles can take the requisite breath, and he bites his tongue so doesn’t go into it anyways. No one appreciates a good babble nowadays, and he doesn’t want to piss Derek off. The Alpha had never been shy about throwing him around back when Stiles was still human and fragile, he doesn’t want to see what Derek will do now that he’s Wolf and resilient. Just because he’ll heal faster doesn’t mean he won’t _hurt_ in the intervening minutes. And Stiles has never been a fan of pain, despite the years of being someone’s punching bag most of his life.

                But, hey, now. He’s a _werewolf_. He’ll never have to be anyone’s bitch ever again. Except maybe Derek’s. And probably Jackson’s. And occasionally Scott’s. But hey! That’s still a vast improvement. _Awesome_ , party of four, anyone?

                “You want breakfast?” It’s a little awkward, but Stiles can’t think of a good reason to be rude. Yeah, the man can be an unholy terror when he wants, but he’s being kinda-sort-almost nice right now.

                “The Sheriff would _love_ that, I’m sure.”

                “He’s not at work?”

                “He’s in the kitchen.” Derek pauses, takes a deep whiff. “Making pancakes.”

                “Well. Go back out and then come back. Through the _door_ this time.” Stiles shrugs. His dad may be a cop, but Derek’s been cleared of all charges and he’s Stiles’ friend, kinda, and he wants to eat pancakes with his new Alpha.

                “Whatever.” He rolls his eyes again, but there might be just the slightest twitching of his lips that could vaguely be described as a smile, in the loosest definition of the word. Stiles watches him climb back out the window, and he’s not a hundred percent sure he’s coming back, but whatever. He’d offered.

* * *

                Derek shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. This is stupid. He has things he needs to be doing. He has to find more members for his pack. He has to lie down and get some sleep, just for a few hours. He has to…he has to…

                Fuck it, he wants pancakes.

                His hand knocks with moderate force, but it’s still louder than he’d intended. Stiles swings the door open with a smile. “Hey, Derek. What a coincidence! We’re just about to eat, you want some?”

                Derek rolls his eyes again. Seriously? _This_ is the prime selection for his pack? They’re all going to die. “Yes, Stiles. I would love some of the pancakes you invited me over to eat.” He deadpans.

                “Who’s it?” The sheriff calls and Derek has to fight an almost instinct urge to duck out of sight. The man _had_ chased him all over town for weeks.

                “I invited a friend over for breakfast!” Stiles shouts back, stepping back to allow Derek entry.

                “Hey, Scott.” The sheriff says without turning around. And it occurs to Derek that it’s kind of sad that even Stiles’ father doesn’t think the kid has more than the one friend.

                “Sheriff.”

                Mr. Stilinski whirls around, spatula in hand and looking ridiculous. “Derek Hale?!”

                “Dad, you remember Derek.” Stiles smiles again, enjoying this way too much.

                “I do. I remember putting out a warrant for his arrest and chasing him all over town.”

                “Yeah, but he was innocent, right? So we should be nice and give him pancakes.”

                “Your logic confuses me, son.”

                “Look, I’ll just go.” Derek shrugs. He didn’t come here for family drama. He just wanted some damn breakfast. Sulking about the neighborhood all night looking for potential werewolves is exhausting and hungering work.

                “No.” Stiles pouts. The kid actually _pouts_. “I invited you over for breakfast. We’re having breakfast. Right, Dad?”

                “…sure, son. We’ll have breakfast.” The sheriff honestly doesn’t look so sure. But he’s not running for his gun or trying to handcuff him, so Derek will take it. He can deal with the impending awkwardness if someone will just give him something to _eat_ already. He’s about two minutes away from going out and finding himself a nice rabbit or something in woods. Or, you know, going to McDonald’s for a tasteless breakfast burrito before he gets back to work.

                “Fantastic. Pancakes for everyone!” The teen cackles with delight, and, honestly, it’s a little scary. Not that Derek’s letting show. Stiles looks like he’s gone off his rocker. Maybe Derek was too hasty in assuming that he made through the change. Maybe he’s rejecting the Bite and he’s going to lose his mind and die. The laughing stops, though the grin remains, and Stiles grabs a plate full of pancakes. “Come on! I’m hun-grey.”

                Or maybe he was insane to start with and Derek simply hadn’t noticed. Oh, well, too late to do anything about it now. Shrugging, Derek follows Stiles’ lead and fixes himself a plate. The sheriff sighs and shakes his head, a small smile on his lips. He’s clearly used to Stiles’ antics. Yep. The kid was loony long before the Bite. Duly noted.

* * *

                Sheriff Robert Stilinski doesn’t know what to make of this. Derek Hale, very recently wanted for murder, is sitting at his table. Eating pancakes. With his son. He’s kind of disturbed. Like, really, really disturbed.

                “So. Stiles. How did you and Derek get to be such good friends?” Interrogation thinly veiled behind polite small talk? Yes, please.

                “Oh, you know. Around.”

                Rob blinks. That, that didn’t even make sense. “Son. That didn’t make sense.”

                “Hmm? Oh.” Stiles’ brow furrows in confusion and Rob can see his son playing the conversation over again in his head. “Huh.”

                He does not elaborate. 

                “I was helping Scott with lacrosse.” Derek throws out once it becomes clear that Stiles has no intention of actually answering the question in any coherent way. “Stiles and Jackson came too.”

                “You were coaching Scott in lacrosse?” That sounds reasonable, but it doesn’t make much more sense than Stiles’ randomness. “How did that come about?”

                “Well, Scott and your son were blundering about on my property again.” He pauses to shoot a glare at Stiles. “While I was practicing. Scott asked me to help him. For ten bucks a lesson, I said yes. And Stiles just tagged along. As usual.”

                “Can’t let Batman go wandering off without Robin. Duh.” Stiles adds in, earning a strange look from both of the other men at the table. “What?”

                “Nothing.” Rob says, deciding not to try and decipher his son’s particular brand of strange this early in the morning. Speaking of. “I need to start heading out. Don’t be late for school again, Stiles.”

                “I’m never late!” Stiles protests, the way he always does. 

                “Uh-huh. Go to school.”

                “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Go to work.” 

                Derek and Rob start out together, and he notices that Derek’s shiny black Camaro is nowhere in sight. “You park up the road or something?”

                “I walked.” Derek shrugs as if the ruins of the Hale estate aren’t miles from where he’s currently standing.

                “Oh. Uh. You need a lift somewhere?” He asks because he kind of feels like he has to. He doesn’t like Derek. He doesn’t dislike him, per say, but there’s something off about the man. Including, but not limited to, the fact that he’s far too skilled at avoiding and escaping the police. 

                “No. Thank you.” The reply is terse and Rob can just imagine some bitten off, sarcastic remark about cop cars waiting on the tip of his tongue. So he doesn’t push. Doesn’t really want to push. He doesn’t want to have Derek Hale in his car any more than Derek wants to be in it. 

                “Suit yourself.” And Rob goes to work still trying to puzzle out how, exactly, he ended up with Derek Hale at his table. And wondering if it’s normal for teenaged boys to go about befriending murder suspects and then inviting them over for breakfast.

                But then, even if it isn’t, Stiles has never been quite normal. Always close, but no cigar. Walking around with his ADHD attention span and rambling mouth and, well, just general weirdness. And Robert loves his son. Loves him more than life itself. So if the boy wants to make friends with Derek Hale, Rob will bite his tongue and let it go. Until such a time as Derek does something to endanger him. Then, Rob’s going to put a twelve gauge to his head and pull the trigger. And he won’t lose a wink of sleep over it either.

                You do what you have to to protect your family. Stiles is the only family Rob has left, and he’ll die before he lets any harm come to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Took a sharp left turn there at the end. Wasn’t planning on that with Sheriff Stilinski. Just sort of happened. But I like it. And the Sheriff seems like he would be fiercely protective of Stiles, without being over protective. Let me know what you think.


	4. Failure to Communicate

Scott woke up with a heavy feeling deep in his stomach, and it hasn’t gone away. Even talking to Allison this morning hadn’t helped. It had soothed him a bit, the way her presence always done regardless of the situation, but the feeling had persisted. Niggling at him from the edge of his mind, a constant reminder that, for all the sweet nothings exchanged, there’s still a war coming. And he’s standing on the front lines opposite her family. 

                And worse, his mind’s just now decided to remind him of something Derek had said. Something Scott hadn’t really registered at the time.

_“Selective recruiting.”_

                Meaning that he’s going to turn more people. Give them the Bite. Expand the Pack. More soldiers to fight and _die_. 

                And Scott had agreed. He’d said _okay_ , and for all he knows Derek could be out biting people right now. And there’s nothing he can do about, can’t even say anything really because he’d been too busy thinking about Allison to _pay attention_. He’s sold his soul to the devil, and he’d done with a smile. And he’s not the one who’s going to be paying the price. The cost of his freedom to stay is going to be paid in the blood of innocents.

                And Scott doesn’t know how to live with that knowledge. 

                As if he needed confirmation of his thoughts, proof that Derek is Biting people, the scent of Wolf assaults his senses. Something familiar, but new. The same, but different. Scott breathes in deep, nose in the air, trying to track the scent. 

                Turns out, he needn’t have bothered.

                “Scott!” Stiles smiles as he approaches, bringing the unmistakable whiff of werewolf with him. “You should really answer your phone.”

                Scott’s eyes widen. He can’t believe this. It’s already started, and it’s started with his best friend. Damn Derek. Damn himself. “Hey.”

                “Like really, answer your phone, man.” Stiles rolls his eyes. “I was freaking out and my best friend was MIA. Not cool. On a different but still kinda related note, I have pictures of Derek eating pancakes at the awkwardness that was breakfast this morning.”

                “Breakfast? He bit you and then stayed for breakfast?” Scott’s pretty sure he’s woken up into some strange alternate universe. A parody of his own, where Stiles is a werewolf and has breakfast with Derek freaking Hale who, last he had heard, doesn’t even _like_ Stiles.

                “No. That’d be weird. He came by this morning, after _you_ ignored my call, to see if I didn’t die. And then we had pancakes. With my dad. Which was _awkward_.”

                “And you took pictures because…” It’s the only thing Scott can think to say. His brain’s too busy trying to process the fact that Stiles is a freaking _werewolf_ to come up with anything better.

                “Dunno. It was one of those surreal moments. Former fugitive eating pancakes with the sheriff. I thought someone should Kodak that moment. So I did.” Stiles shrugs, digging through his pockets.

                “After he Bit you.”

                “Dude, _yes_. Keep up.” Stiles, expression victorious, pulls out his cell. He promptly shoves it in Scott’s face. “See, look at their faces! It’s hilarious.”

                Scott’s eyes slowly bring the picture inches from his face into focus. And, yes, Derek Hale and Sheriff Stilinski are both in it. Eating pancakes. With distinctly uncomfortable and confused expressions on their faces. “Uh…” He’s not too sure what it is he’s supposed to say to that. “You know Derek’s gonna kill you when he finds out about the pictures, right?”

                Stiles blanches, eyes widening and darting around as if he expects to see the Alpha at any minute. He snatches his phone back, quickly pressing buttons. “You see, the thought hadn’t occurred to me. But now that it has…There, deleted. All good.” He smiles and it’s easy to forget that the whole world has just shifted on its axis and is now spinning in reverse because Derek is running around _biting_ people. Including his best friend. 

                “Did he tell you why he bit you?”

                “Nope. Just stormed in all sour wolf and told me I’d do. Which, rude, right? _I’ll do_? I’m _awesome_ , and my werewolf qualifications are awesome too.” Stiles sulks for a moment, then returns from his tangent. “And then it’s all teeth and pain and blood and he’s out the freaking window with a jaunty ‘welcome to the pack’. Dick.”

                “And then you gave him pancakes?” Scott’s trying to make sense of this but, honestly he’s just confused. And angry. Because Derek should have at least told Stiles what he was getting into. You don’t sign someone up for war without telling them. And you sure don’t do something as life-altering as turning them into a werewolf without their permission. Fucking Derek…

                “No. Then, I played nurse, then maid. And then I destroyed evidence. My dad would be so ashamed…” Stiles shakes his head solemnly, but there’s a smile on his face. That does make sense though, because Stiles does a lot of things his dad doesn’t approve of. Like, oh I don’t know, running around the woods late at night to sneak a peek at a body.

                “And then pancakes?” Because this story is rapidly losing any semblance of sense and Scott doesn’t have the will to try and figure it out right now.  

                “No. Then he comes back, all stupid and wolfy and congratulates me on not dying. Then I punched him, but it wasn’t all cool like in the movies. Total letdown. And then, after he threaten to give me toes for teeth, I gave him pancakes. Which, by the way, is a really weird thing to be focusing on, buddy.”

                Yes. Scott is the weird one in this situation. 

                “And you’re okay? With the whole werewolf thing?”

                “Come on, Scott, I’ve been standing on the sidelines of all the wolfy weirdness from the beginning, remember? In fact, I seem to recall being the one who was like ‘hey, dude, you’re a werewolf’. It was always going to be a part my life, because you’re a part of my life. At least this way I’m less likely to be maimed and murdered.”

                “I wouldn’t be too sure about _that_.” Scott mutters just as the bell rings for first period.

 

* * *

 

                The worst part about living in a small town, in Allison’s opinion, is that everyone knows something and no one is shy about sharing. Which means that everyone knows that her aunt’s been connected to the Hale family fire and is being blamed for the animal attacks. And everyone knows that her father had forbidden her to see Scott. Everyone knows, and everyone’s staring, and it’s driving her insane. And she can’t even get a comfort hug from Scott because _someone_ would see, and then _everyone_ would know and it would get back to her dad.

                And he’s been giving her these looks all day. Like he needs to talk to her. He knows he can’t. They’ve made do with sticking notes in lockers to convey meeting places and times, sentimental declarations of love and support. But something tells her that this is the sort of thing that won’t fit on a scrap of paper small enough to slip into her locker. And she wants to be there for him. Wants to soothe away whatever’s bothering him. Help him figure out whatever it is that’s got him so worried. 

                But she _can’t_. And it’s _killing_ her. 

                Because things are even more dangerous than they were before. Her dad hasn’t let her anywhere near the meetings with the other hunters, but that in and of itself is telling. The only reason he wouldn’t want her around is if they’re discussing hunting. Hunting Scott, to be specific. Which means that Derek is probably right, and her whole family is in town to kill her friends and boyfriend. And she can’t afford to provoke her father more than ever. One wrong move and she could start a war neither side is ready for. 

                “Hello? Earth to Allison.” Lydia snaps her fingers in front of her face. “Mall? Shoes? Post-forced-break-up spending spree?”

                “Uh…” Allison is pretty sure that buying clothes isn’t going to help the fact that she’s not allowed to see her boyfriend. But then again, Lydia was honestly dumped. In a really douchy way. So this might be more for her than Allison. And maybe she should go. Do that comforting thing.

                “Come on. Nothing says ‘I’m punishing you for breaking me and boyfriend up’ like spending exorbitant amounts of Daddy’s money.” Lydia wheedles, and she does have a point. Allison can’t lash out, can’t risk teenaged rebellion right now. But passive-aggressiveness and quiet, overlookable bitchiness? Allison can work with that.

                “Yeah. Okay. We can do that. Assuming my dad pulls the stick out of his ass long enough to let me out of the house.”

                “You think he’s going to go all house arrest on you?”

                “Maybe.” Allison doesn’t mention the fifty members of extended family that has come flooding in or the looming war they’re planning to wage. If ever her father had an excuse to keep her locked up in the house, an impending war between her family and werewolves would probably be it. 

                “Well, we’ll ask him. I’ll bat these emeralds at him; he’ll be powerless to resist.”

                They laugh. Lydia because she’s legitimately amused, Allison because she doesn’t know what else to do. 

 

* * *

 

                This whole werewolf thing? Stiles doesn’t get why Scott is always so bummed about it. It’s freaking _awesome_. It probably helps that he already knows what’s going on, knows what to expect after seeing Scott go through it. And that the Alpha who Bit him isn’t stark raving mad and hellbent on getting him to kill off all his friends. And he’s not trying to date the daughter of a werewolf hunter.

                Actually, now that he thinks about it, he totally gets why Scott is always so bummed about it. Nevermind. 

                But for Stiles, it’s kind of really great. He feels good. Like really, really good. Half of him wants to do something to show just how good he feels. What, exactly, he isn’t sure. But something. The other half remembers that there happens to be a family of werewolf hunters in town and their daughter goes to school here. Not that he thinks Allison would ever tell, but it would be just his luck to be doing something stupid and wolfy when Papa Argent comes to pick his daughter up.

                So, yeah. He’s just sitting in class, head buzzing with new feelings and sensations. Everything is so damn bright and loud and different. Stiles wonders if this is what being high is supposed to be like. Because, if it is, then he absolutely gets why people do it.

                If he closes his eyes and focuses, he can hear every heart beating in the class. Can even hear the tiny distinctions that make them all different, picking out whose heart is whose within the cacophony. He can hear the gears in the clock, interlocking and turning, as the hands spin. 

                And smell! He can smell everything. He’s not even trying really. There’s the distinct odor of werewolf and Scott—earthy, like cilantro and cumin—layered together in a way that just makes sense. The different perfumes from the girls in the room. Colognes and aftershaves from the guys. The Wolfy sweat of Jackson who was obviously working out before class; he’s showered but the salt-sweat tinge remains, clinging to the innate scent of honey and iron that Stiles was not expecting to equate with Jackson but totally does anyway. And Jackson’s _blood_ , hot and kind of spicy and clearly different than any human’s, clouding out nearly everything else. It’s cloying under fresh scabs, platelets still oozing with the scent. Stiles doesn’t know who or what bitchslapped Jackson like a cheap whore, but he’ going to make it his personal mission in life to never, _ever_ piss it off.

                He hasn’t gotten a chance to own at lacrosse and showcase his new ability to kick ass, but he will. But, again, werewolf hunters in town. Second string nerd becomes badass athlete overnight, kinda suspicious. Especially since Mr. Argent knows he knows Scott and Derek. Which sucks. Because Scott got to use his furry problem to become co-freaking-captain, and Stiles has the sinking feeling that he’s going to have to play the quiet game when it comes to his abilities. Which, again, _sucks_.

                But, it’s not all bad. During his douche days right before the full moon, Lydia was totally into Scott and his _animal magnetism_ or whatever. So, maybe he’ll finally get a chance to show her that he’s sweet and sensitive and cool and hot. He’s been in love with the girl since the third grade and she’d ditched him at the formal, the least she could do is be impressed by his newfound wolfy awesomeness. Even if she doesn’t know it’s wolfy. Shouldn’t know it’s wolfy. Whatever. Point is, he’d really love it if she would bother to give him the time of day every now and again, okay?

                The bell rings and Stiles winces, still high on his new hearing and not quite sure how to turn it off. But it’s still pretty freaking awesome.

                “Oh, lunch tray, be still my heart.” Stiles croons lovingly, eying the assortment of food greedily. With great werewolf power, comes great werewolf hunger.

                His steps falter a little when looks up and sees Jackson sitting with Scott. They may be part of the same pack, but Jackson had continued as if they weren’t. Sitting with his jock friends and the popular girls, tossing out insults, and just being the douche they all know and hate. But he’s sitting with Scott right now, leaning forward and whispering with mild urgency.

                Both Scott and Jackson look up when he sets his tray down. “Dude, what’s with you? You smell weird.” Is Jackson’s lovely greeting. And his jerk-wad behavior instantly makes Stiles to forget to ask what the _hell_ happened to his face, and why isn’t it healing. Uninformed and unobservant assholes tend to have that effect on him.

                “Derek gave me the Bite.” Stiles shrugs, surprised he even has to say it. I mean, sure, Scott had been surprised, obviously Derek hadn’t told the rest of the pack his plan, but he’d known right off what had happened. Ha. Scott: 1, Jackson: 0.

                “You couldn’t tell?” Scott taunts, and Stiles has no choice but to grin. Because Scott is right, Jackson _should_ have known pretty much instantly. It’s a very distinct smell.

                “Shut up, McCall. I don’t spend a lot of time sniffing Stilinski’s ass.” He retorts, and he does kind of have a point. Scott’s a lot more familiar with his natural scent than he is, what them actually being _friends_ and all.

                “Doesn’t matter. He smells like Wolf. You should have noticed.”

                “I don’t spend a lot of time sniffing you or Derek either.”

                “Whatever.” Stiles interrupts the pissing contest. “What’s up, Jackson? Why’re you deigning to sit with us lowly losers?” Cue sarcasm. 

                “I was discussing our joint resignations from the lacrosse team. You too now, I guess.”

                “Why are we quitting lacrosse? Other than it being totally unfair to have three badass werewolves on our team when everyone else doesn’t, since I’m guessing it’s not your inherent sense of sportsmanship.” The last part is said around the huge mouthful of burger he’s just bit into. Ah, the glorious taste of meat and cheese.

                “He doesn’t know?” Jackson sounds incredulous. Meaning that whatever it is he doesn’t know, Stiles should probably know. Fantastic.

                “Derek didn’t tell him.” Scott glowers. Oh, great, he’s being Mr. Angry-Broody Werewolf Jr. again.

                “Are we supposed to? We’re not Derek’s goddamn messenger pigeons.”

                “Can we not talk about me like I’m not right here?” Stiles groans. He just wants to eat his cheeseburger. Why are werewolf politics invading his lunch time? Oh, yeah. He is one now, and even before that he was best friends with one. Stupid werewolves running around biting teenaged boys.

                “After Peter killed Kate. Well, the Argents were a little upset. And now…”

                “A whole shit ton of ‘em are in town to kill us off.” Jackson finishes with an elegance beyond his years. Sarcasm: live it, love it.

                “Oh. Yeah. I could see why they wouldn’t be in the ‘Become a werewolf’ sells pitch.” _Fucking_ _Derek_. “So, they’re coming to murder us. Nice.”

                “Derek wants us to quit the team and start going to his place after school.”

                “He’s got some kind of werewolf survival training bullshit planned.”

                “Yes, Jackson. Mock the guy who’s trying to keep us not-dead.” Stiles feels obligated to defend the Alpha. Survival training sounds like a damned good idea to him, seeing as a bunch of highly trained killers are in town and looking for blood.

                “He’s being a tyrannical asshole, is what he’s doing. He just wants us to be his little pack-bitches so the Argents don’t put a bullet in his brain and call it a day.”

                “That’s not true. Allison said her dad brought in, like, fifty hunters. When Derek said they were declaring war, he meant _war_.”

                “So we quit the team. Check.” Even though the thought that that couldn’t be more suspicious if they were _trying_ objects inside his brain. He doesn’t dare voice it right now. He’s too scared. He’ll talk to Derek about it. Or something. Right now, he needs more information. “And Derek teaches us how to not die. Double check. Anything else the sour wolf left out?”

                “I don’t think so.”

                “Probably. But that’s all he told _us_.”

                Oh, yeah. This werewolf thing is just freaking awesome.

                Fucking Derek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I learned that I can't write Scott very well. His voice, it escapes me. I shall have to work on that...Anyways, let me know what you think.


	5. Contingency Plans

Derek had really hoped he’d never need to all this number again. He had hoped that he could come home and never need to be anyone but Derek Hale ever again. But he is a man who believes in caution, and he doesn’t like to be unprepared. _Always_ prepare for the worst.

                “H&J Photography Studio, how may I help you today?”

                “I need to set up an appointment with Thomas Jenson. As soon as possible. Tomorrow, if he can manage.”

                “Mr. Jenson doesn’t appear to have an opening tomorrow. Does next Wednesday work, sir?”

                “Tell him it’s Erik Hyde, and I need at least six full spreads.”

                “Just a minute, Mr. Hyde.” Horrible elevator music comes on, and Derek is treated to the joys of being on hold. 

                “Erik, how are you, you sonuvabitch?” Tommy greets less than a minute later. Good. It’s always better to deal with the source directly. Less chance of some secretary fudging the finer details.

                “You know how it is, Tommy.”

                “Meaning you done did pissed someone off again.”

                “Don’t I always? But, there’s always time for a family photo-shoot.” Derek says, making clear that this isn’t a social call. He wants to do business.

                “Sarah did say something about six spreads. Thought you ran solo?” Gentle prodding. Tommy wants more than the basics, but Derek isn’t about to go into it now. Tommy is never certain whether or not his phone is bugged. Hazard of being the best forger in the state.

                “Things change. I’ve been visiting my cousins. You’ll meet them at the shoot.”

                “Right. Cousins. And you want a coupla spreads to commemorate.”

                “Exactly. You still doing work in San Diego?”

                “Yeah. You need a rush?” Tommy can do the prep work tonight, if time is a factor. But it will all be generic and cheap. And Derek needs the best, not the easiest.

                “I need an appointment for tomorrow, around six. And quality over speed.” Derek needs the good stuff. He needs to get through the most stringent examinations. The Argents have covers and contacts in law enforcement. If they give chase, Derek needs to be able to run with something that will fool the best of the best.

                “Fantastic. I’ll clear my schedule and await your party.”

                “Good. And, of course, I’ll pay extra since you’re doing me this huge favor and losing a day of business.” The ‘extra’ is just the honest cost of fake papers so good they’re practically legitimate. Understandably, it’s more expensive than any honest photo shoot ever would be.

                “You are a generous friend to have, Erik. Remind me to do favors for you more often.”

                “Tomorrow at six.”

                “Tomorrow at six.”

                Derek sighs when the line goes dead. One down. Two to go. 

                “Michael, I have an order you’re going to love.”

                “Tell me, Mr. Dirge. Orders from you always make me happy. And rich. You need a new Camaro? Or have you finally decided to trade up to the Ferrari?”

                “Neither. I’m thinking two wheels this time. Fast and agile.”

                “Motorcycle. Good choice. You have a model in mind?”

                “The fastest and most maneuverable. Price is, of course, no obstacle.”

                “One Suzuki GXS-R1000 coming up.”

                “No. I want ten.”

                “ _Ten_? That’s a large order, Frank. What are you going to do with ten Suzukis?” Michael doesn’t actually _care_. He just wants to cover his ass. And Derek is willing to provide him the flimsy excuse he’s looking for.

                “I’m visiting some family and all my cousins have birthdays in the coming months. I’m buying their affection.”

                “Ah. Very good, Mr. Dirge. I’ll have them shipped tomorrow. They should arrive in two to three weeks, and you can pick them up any time after that.”

                “Excellent, Michael. Send me the bill, and I’ll see you in two to three weeks.”

                “Thank you for your business, Mr. Dirge.”

                Just one left. Unfortunately, it’s going to be the most difficult.

                “This had  better be good, Hale.” 

                “I need a favor, Gabe.”

                “Not a chance in hell, Derek. You hear me? Hell no.”

                “It’s for my Pack.”

                “You don’t _have_ a pack, Hale.”

                “I do now. My uncle went insane and Bit a couple of kids in Beacon Hills.” Derek willfully leaves out that Peter only bit one kid; Derek did the rest of the biting all on his own. Gabriel doesn’t need to know that. “They’re my responsibility now, and we’ve got hunters. A whole fucking platoon of em. And I need to protect them. They’re fucking _kids_ , Gabe.”

                “Goddamnit, Hale.” Gabe snarls, and Derek knows he’s won. “What? What do you want?”

                “We can’t leave. If I disappear with half a dozen minors, the Argents won’t be the only ones hunting me. And they _want_ to stay…they want to fight.”

                “Shit. You’re going to ask for something I really shouldn’t give you, aren’t you?”

                “Yes. I am. I need camouflage, flash grenades, smoke bombs, body armor, heavy-duty combat boots, tripwire, and 9mm handguns.”

                “Derek, that’s a tall order. I don’t know that I can make it happen.”

                “Please, Gabe. These are _children_. And the Argents have already proven that they’ll kill them all. I can’t watch my Pack be massacred. Not again.”

                “…quantities…?”

                “Thirty-six complete fatigues. A dozen sets of boots and armor. Two dozen 9mms. A hundred yards of wire. Four crates of both the grenades and bombs.”

                “Jesus fucking Christ, Derek. Do you even realize what you’re asking for?”

                “I do. But I need it. We’re outnumbered and outgunned. We’re all going to die here if I don’t do something.”

                “For the cubs, I’ll get you what you need.”

                “If I need more…”

                “Call. I’ll do what I can.” 

                “Thank you, Gabe. I owe you one.”

                “You owe me more that, Hale. A lot more.” 

                The call ends abruptly, but Derek honestly couldn’t have hoped for better. His bank account is going to take a serious hit, but as the last living Hale he has more than enough to survive the blow. And he needs this because the _pack_ needs this. He’s going to do everything in his power to make it safe for them to stay here. 

                But if he can’t, he’s going to make damn sure they have everything they need to get away and never be found again.

 

* * *

 

                If there’s going to be a war, and Allison has the sinking feeling that there will be, she knows that she won’t remain an innocent bystander. Hunting is her family’s legacy, they’ll expect her to fight. But she won’t. Not unless she has to. And if she has to, well they’re going to wish she didn’t, because they’re not going to like who she’s fighting _for_.

                They may be her family but, with the exception of her parents, she doesn’t know them. Doesn’t owe them anything. Doesn’t owe them her allegiance. But the werewolves, she knows them. And they don’t deserve to _die_. They haven’t hurt anyone who didn’t hurt them. They don’t want war, and Allison can’t imagine killing them in defense of people they’ve never threatened or a dead woman who tried to kill them first.

                The arrow flies from her bow and slams into the target with a satisfying _thunk_. Dead center. Bulls-eye. She hasn’t lost her touch. She nocks another arrow, holds it taut and ready, and remembers aiming it at Scott. His confusion. His pain. His fear. But never anger, never aggression. She’d been shooting at him, and he still hadn’t wanted to attack. 

                Thunk!

                And that’s why she can’t do it again. Can’t look at him down the side of her arrow as she prepares to shoot. Can’t view him through the sight of a gun ready to fire. 

                Thunk!”

                She’ll never fire on her dad or her mom. She loves them. But she won’t fight for them. Won’t _kill_ for them.

                Thunk!

                When the battle-cries sound and the soldiers march towards war and death, Allison won’t be on the side her family thinks she should. She’s made up her mind. She picks right over wrong, good _actions_ over good _intentions_ , kind over cruel, sane over crazed.

_Love_ over _hate._

                Thunk!

                And if that means opening fire on her family, she’ll do it. If it means seeing her parents standing against her on the other side of battlefield, she’ll do it. If it means taking the Bite and becoming everything her family despises, she’ll do it. For Scott and his Pack, she’ll do anything. She’ll do with a smile on her face and a song in her heart, and she won’t lose a wink of sleep when it’s all said and done, either.

                In a war between humans and werewolves, she picks _these_ wolves every time.

 

* * *

 

                Allison has started practicing with her bow again. Reignited the passion. And Chris is glad, because it makes her happy. But he’s worried too. Showing her skills right now means drawing the attention of the Clans. And that is the last thing they need.

                The Council of Clans is still deliberating the prospect of war, weighing the pros and cons. Discussing the costs. Planning to plot. Plotting to plan. Scheming strategizes. Strategizing schemes. The war is going to come, the only thing left to discuss is it scale.

                And if they see Allison’s skill, they’ll ask her to fight. She’ll refuse and they’ll find about her and Scott’s little tryst. About her divided loyalties. They’ll find out that he knew, and protected her. And those are both things that Chris would really rather they never know.

                He’s seen what happens to blood traitors. It is not a fate he would wish upon anyone or anything.

                So he plans an escape. He is a cautious man. His decisions are rarely rash, calling for war excepted, and he won’t have her run until he knows they need to. But he’ll be prepared. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst. Chris will be damned if he’ll stand idly by watch his daughter die, regardless of her transgressions.

                He buys her a new collapsible compound bow and three quivers of arrows, seven pairs of jeans, fourteen plain tops, two hoodies, a pair of sturdy leather boots, and a 9mm handgun. He buys her these things, but he doesn’t give them to her. Instead, he packs them neatly into a duffel he hides beneath his bed. He’s hidden a spare bow beneath hers too so that if they come for her before he can get her away, she won’t be defenseless. 

                He doesn’t prepare a bag for himself. He’s a grown man and he’s made his own decisions. He’ll pay the consequences without a word of complaint. And he’s more than willing to die if it buys Allison more time to get away.

                The pack, Chris grudgingly admits to himself, will protect her when she runs. Scott will keep her safe because he loves her. Derek will keep her safe because he’s loyal to his pack. And any others, because Chris isn’t stupid enough to believe that Hale hadn’t seen this coming and isn’t biting people this very minute, they’ll defer to their Alpha. Argent blood or no, Allison be safe when she runs. 

                _If_ she runs. Because this isn’t _certain_. Chris doesn’t _know_ what will happen. He never did. If he’d known the outcome of it all, he’d have done so much more to stop it. Kept Kate from getting involved with Derek, the underaged werewolf she shouldn’t have even looked twice at. Given her more comfort when things between them hadn’t worked out and she was _so angry_ because twenty-two year old women aren’t rejected by their teenaged lovers; they do the rejecting as far as Kate was concerned. Asked more questions about the Hale fire, made her tell him the truth. Dealt with her violations in their way, quietly and from within not without. Never called the Clans together. Never asked for war. 

                Hell, given the option, he would have chosen to never Hunt at all. Not if he’d read ahead, seen the way things would happen. Dominoes tumbling down, connecting and destroying everything. 

                He hopes, if she has to run, has to run to _them_ …he hopes they don’t give her the Bite. He doesn’t want that for his baby girl. And he has no right to ask that of them, even inside his own mind, because this is all of his own making. If Derek bites Allison it will be because she ran, and she’ll only run if she has too. And she would never have to if he hadn’t lashed out in his pained rage and demanded war.

                Yes. He has a plan for when the world falls apart. 

                But he hopes to God he never has to use it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think.


	6. How Does One Train a Werewolf Army, Part I

Stiles keeps it low-key at practice, but it’s nice to be _good_ for once. He keeps up during drills and maintains an average pace when they run laps. He makes a few shots that he probably wouldn’t have before. But, he doesn’t make a spectacle of himself. Doesn’t perform any better than an okay athlete who’s been putting in a little extra effort.

                The coach doesn’t really notice, but his teammates do. It’s just a few looks, nothing overt. Friendly nods that show they see he’s improved, even if it’s just a little bit. Danny even gives him a celebratory ass slap and a “Good hustle” when he passes on the track.

                Stiles almost asks if he finds him attractive, but he manages to reel in the impulse. Danny’s a nice guy, and he’s being nice, and Stiles really doesn’t want to bring his big mouth into the equation. That’s usually where things go terribly, terribly wrong.

                Jackson and Scott, of course, play like superstars. They’re allowed to because they have been since the start of the year and sucking now might draw attention, which is exactly what they’re trying to avoid. They make impossible shots, tackle people like angry linebackers, and run half a lap ahead of the rest of the team. And they’re at each other’s throats, figuratively speaking, just like they always are. Jackson still playing his game of one-upmanship like the world will end if he loses.

                But Stiles knows only about half that animosity is real. Now that Jackson has the Bite, now that they’re on equal footing, he doesn’t hate Scott half as much as did. They’re not _friends_ , not even close. But Jackson doesn’t torment him with any real venom nowadays. Which is nice, because Stiles was getting really tired of _that_ pissing contest. Just lay ‘em out and measure, guys.

                And when practice is over and they hit the locker room, it becomes clear the dynamic has changed. The three of them change quickly and head out together, earning raised eyebrows from a couple of guys, including Danny and the coach. But no one bothers to say anything.

                “You wanna carpool?” Stiles offers, gesturing to his jeep. 

                “And ride in that piece of shit you call a car?” Jackson sneers. “I think I’ll take mine.”

                “Right. Well, we’ll see you and the _douche_ -mobile when we get to Derek’s.”

                “Bite me, Stilinski.” He retorts, pouring himself into his Porsche and taking off.

                “That last insult lacked rancor, don’t ya think? More a clichéd throw back than anything else.” Stiles ponders, trying to gently point out to Scott that Jackson is still a tool, but a little less so these days. “You think we jumped dimensions?

                “You know, I’ve been asking myself that since the pancake thing this morning.”

                “Dude. Let go of the pancakes.” Really. Scott has got to let that go.

                “It’s weird!”

                “We’re werewolves, but the _pancakes_ are weird?” Ha! Logic slam!

                “They are when you’re eating them with _Derek_.” Scott sulks.

                “Get your non-driving ass in my car before we’re late and Derek throws a hissy fit.” Stiles demands, climbing in himself. “Hmm. Growly fit? Cause wolves _growl_.” 

                Scott remains silent during the drive, but that’s okay because Stiles is debating the validity of “hissy” versus ‘”growly”. 

                “Took you long enough.” Jackson taunts. Derek just sort of looms and glowers in that way of his. You know, like he does right before/during/after he’s slammed Stiles up against the nearest solid surface. He has a reflexive desire to flinch and hide, and it takes him a minute to realize that everyone’s staring at him. Oh. He actually _had_ flinched. 

                How embarrassing.

                “Hey guys!” He waves cheerily, diverting their attention from his weirdness with _more_ weirdness. He is a _genius_!

                “Scott. Stiles.” Derek finally deigns to speak.

                “Why’d you turn Stiles? You didn’t need to do that; he was already helping us!” Scott growls, and Stiles is a little hurt that Scott doesn’t want him in the pack. They’re supposed to be best friends. Don’t besties share things like being bitten by a werewolf and initiated into a pack together?

                “He _was_ helping us.” Derek shrugs, because in his mind, Stiles is sure, that explains everything. Of course, since the rest of them _aren’t_ him, no one has any idea where he’s going with it. After about thirty seconds of blank staring, Derek seems to get that Scott, and to a lesser extent, Stiles, and to a much lesser extent, Jackson, are all still waiting for an explanation that actually makes sense to them. “You think they were going to care that he was human? This is _war_ , and he is very clearly on our side. That makes him an enemy in the Argent’s eyes. I gave him the Bite because all our allies happen to be standing right the fuck here, and we can’t afford to lose _any_ of them.”      

                “You bit him to save him?” Scott sounds like he wants to believe it, but he kind of doesn’t. Which, what the hell, dude? Isn’t Derek his Alpha too? Should he, Stiles doesn’t know, _trust_ the guy a little.

                “Not save, protect; he’s less breakable now.”

                “Good enough for me!” Stiles interjects because, like Derek said, they’re kind of about to go to war and they can’t really afford in-fighting right now. “You know, the guy who was bitten?”

                Scott winces a little, and damn straight. Stiles gets so damn tired of everyone pretending like he’s not right there when they’re talking about him, like he’s a child incapable of making his own decisions. 

                “So. What’s this ‘training’ going to be?” Jackson demands, clearly bored with their boring little drama. After all, it wasn’t about him, so why should Jackson care, right? Ass.

                “When I get the supplies I ordered, it’ll be more complicated. But for now?” Derek does his creepy smile again and then pulls out a _gun_. “I want you to _run_.”

                Stiles doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s off like a shot the moment he sees the gun, long before Derek even finishes his sentence. Off and running like a bat out of hell towards the trees as he hears the gun go off and a howl of pain. Someone obviously didn’t run fast enough.

                The adrenaline kicks in overtime, and Stiles feels the Wolf for the first time. He wishes he could stop and just enjoy the moment, the exhilaration that comes with the shift. The feeling of his hand becoming clawed talons and his jaw realigning to accommodate more teeth than he knows what to do with. And his senses ratcheting up yet another notch and making every last thing so painfully, vividly _real_.

                But he’s become frighteningly familiar with Derek’s ability to do violence, and he has no doubt that if he catches him Derek will have no problem shooting him. Sure, he’ll probably hit him in the leg or shoulder; he doesn’t really want to kill them after all. This is just training. But Stiles really, really doesn’t want to get _shot_. Anywhere. Ever. 

                Knowing he’ll heal pretty much instantly does absolutely nothing to ease the fear of pain. And the newfound knowledge can’t dispel a decade and half of learned behavior. When people starting shooting, you start running. Guns are bad. Getting shot is bad. 

                He darts down to all fours, clawing apart the earth with his claws as he runs. Zig-zag patterns, sudden and random turns, anything he can think of to make it harder for Derek to line up a shot. More shots, still behind him but nearly as far as he’d like. Stiles turns in the opposite direction and picks up speed, but he can’t help wondering if he should double back and try and help his packmates out. Derek had said to run. This is obviously an escape drill. Stiles doesn’t need to try and play hero.

                But.

                Oh, _hell_. Stiles turns wide, angling back towards the shots but keeping his distance. The last thing he wants to do is go blundering right into Derek’s sights. Nose in the air, he takes a deep breathe, Jackson’s blood is in the air, fresh. It smells _wet_. Stiles didn’t even know smells could _be_ wet. Guess Jacky-boy was the slow one.

                That means that Derek was shooting at Scott. Now Stiles definitely has to help. He was going to before, but he doesn’t have a choice anymore. He can leave Jackson behind and hope for the best, but Scott is pretty much his brother. And he’s not letting him get _shot_.

                Stiles skids to a stop beneath a tree, wondering about wolves and cats and do werewolves climb trees? Because that would be an awesome tactic. And then he remembers Derek has a gun and he’s shooting and Scott needs him. He curses his ADHD and refocuses again. He can’t see much through all the trees, but he doesn’t need to. Wolves have different ways of finding each other.

                “Ar-ar-aroooo!” He howls, much better than Scott’s first attempt. But then, Scott was trying to lure the Alpha out and Stiles is trying to find his friend. Different motivations, different results.

                “Aroooo!” It sounds desperate. Or, as desperate as a wordless, animalistic yowl can. Stiles takes off towards the sound and hopes that Derek doesn’t cheat and use his Alpha Wolf senses to track them both. After all, they’re training to fight Argent hunters, who are _human_.

                Figuring out his position via a single cry is harder than Stiles thought it would be. He had kind of been expecting to get some weird-psychic link thing showing him where to go. Yeah, not so much. But it’s okay, because Scott has some experience in the matter and he finds him first.

                “Behind me! Twenty feet or so!” He calls as they continue to run.

                “Jackson?” Because, friend or not, they’re going to need all the help they can get.

                “Derek shot him in the leg before I even hit the tree-line. I don’t know if he’s still ‘playing’.”

                “Keep going straight. I have a plan.” Stiles declares, breaking off to the left and circling back again.

                Moments later, he sees Derek. He’s running like a man. No sign of the Wolf anywhere. He’s playing human, so this might actually work. Stiles waits for Derek to dart past him, careful not to expose himself. When the sound of Derek’s steps, loud and lacking the natural grace that comes with the Bite, fades almost beyond his perception, Stiles goes on the hunt.

                Tracking Derek is easy. He’s putting real dedication into his portrayal of a human hunter. His footsteps are heavy and loud. His breathing far too loud and fast for a werewolf after such a short burst of exertion. Catching up to him is even easier. He’s moving slower, blundering about blindly like he doesn’t know these woods like the back of his hand.

                Stiles can see the faint outline of Scott darting around ahead of them both, and Derek has his gun out in front of him, trying to get a clear shot. Stiles tackles him just as he squeezes off his next shot. Derek’s arm, and consequently his gun, flings out to the side and the shot goes wide as they fall to the ground. Stiles climbs around on him, desperate not to give him the chance to get up and shoot him, until he’s squatting on Derek’s chest with his claws at his throat.

                “Does this mean we win?” Stiles asks, not letting up. Has he mentioned how much he _doesn’t want to_ _get shot_?

                “Yeah, Stiles. You win.” Derek concedes, and then promptly does this weird whirly-flip move that ends with Stiles on his back with Derek on top of him, hand around his throat. “But that will only work against one, and they _always_ use teams. Consider it a preview of what’s coming up next.”

                “Right. Thanks.” Stiles squeaks, so not comfortable with having this man, who has done him bodily harm on more than one occasion, put his hands around his throat.

                Fortunately, Derek releases him immediately. He stands, dusts himself off, shifts into Beta form, and lets loose a horrendous howl that puts Stiles’ and Scott’s to shame. Stiles feels the instinctive urge to put the tail he doesn’t have between his legs and lie flat, belly up and throat bared. But, thankfully for the sake of his already bruised pride, he manages not to.

                Two answering howls echo through the woods almost instantly. Stiles can only assume that Scott and Jackson are on their way.

 

* * *

 

                How fucking pathetic. Jackson is pissed at himself. He strives for perfection. He has to be the best. And the best sure as hell doesn’t go down first. But he had. While Stilinski had bolted before Jackson even knew what was happening, while McCall had started booking it the second Derek’s intentions became clear, Jackson had just stood there. And then Derek had shot him.

                A clean shot to the shoulder, through and through. Derek had looked down at him, all arrogant and irritating, like Jackson didn’t already know he screwed up.

                “And now you’re dead. While you’re trying to heal, a hunter will put a bullet in your brain. Assuming they don’t just start with aconite bullets. They do that, they won’t even need the double-tap. They’ll just leave you die, slowly and painfully. You see a gun, Jackson, you _run_.”

                Yeah, thanks, Drill Sergeant Derek. The gaping bullet hole in his shoulder made that pretty clear. And he’d order him to stay there while he chased down Scott and Stiles. 

                Jackson hasn’t felt like such a failure since he was a little kid. He’s a goddamn werewolf. He does get taken out with the first fucking shot. He’s not a pawn, cannon-fodder to distract the big, bad hunters while the rest of the pack make their escapes. He’s first-string material, a finely developed resource. He works twice as hard to be three times as good. This, _losing_ , it doesn’t happen to him.

                He arrives after both Scott and Stiles. Dead last. Again.

                “Now, hand-to-hand.” Derek says as soon as he arrives. Well, at least he wasn’t snide. Jackson’s not sure he could take snark on top of failure. “Scott, Jackson, you first. No holds barred. Win by knock-out or submission. There are no tap-outs. You keep going until someone’s limp. Understood?”

                Three resounding “Yes”s. Jackson’s looking forward to this. He doesn’t actively want to murder Scott in his sleep anymore. But he’s frustrated and he’s angry and Scott happens to be conveniently positioned to feel the brunt of his wrath. Shit happens. Man up. 

                He narrows his focus to McCall, Derek and Stilinski fading away in the background. Right now, thy don’t matter. It’s just him, and the guy in his way. The fact that it’s Scott is completely irrelevant. Friend or foe, Jackson will take out anyone standing between him and what he wants.

                Jackson doesn’t know any martial arts, doesn’t have any experience with fighting outside of the occasional schoolyard scuffle and slamming nerds into lockers. But he doesn’t think Scott does either, other than being slammed _into_ lockers. But they’re werewolves and they’re naturally athletic, so who the hell knows what’s about to happen. The only thing Jackson is certain of is that he’s going to win. He’s going to rip McCall apart until he’s the best again.

                The creeps out slowly, simmering beneath the surface like his rage. Claws extend as his eyes turn gold. Hair sprouts from his clean-shaven face. Jaws contort, fill with more teeth than a human being could ever possibly need.

                Scott’s shift is quicker, lightning quick. Claws and hair erupting, jaw snapping, in the time it takes for his eyes to spark to life. But this isn’t a race, and a few extra months with the wolf isn’t going to save Scott from becoming Jackson’s new chew toy.

                Jackson’s opening attack is a quick jab he fully expects to miss. But it doesn’t, because apparently McCall’s only skills are supernaturally cheating against humans and running away. The light jab lands, but it doesn’t do much. After all, it was half a feint. It wasn’t supposed to hit him, let alone hurt him. But it gives Jackson an extra fraction of a second to throw a solid right hook.

                But Scott ducks, lunges. Wraps his arms around Jackson’s middle and takes him down. It’s a squirmy wrestling match then. Jackson is bound and determined to end up on top, no matter how much his chest hurts, so he can whale on McCall’s face until the loser is broken and limp and Jackson is the best again. But he can’t get the leverage, can’t flip or roll or do _anything_. 

                And, god, why is he so _useless_? People pick him. To be their baby, their friend, their boyfriend, their captain. _Why_? Why do they pick him when he keeps screwing everything up? It isn’t fair. He didn’t asked to be picked. He doesn’t want their expectations. Their _judgments_. He can do it right. He can be perfect. He can prove them wrong by proving them right. 

                A surge of rage gives him the strength to finally, finally move Scott. And he’s on top. His chest is screaming at him, but it doesn’t matter. He’s the best. And this is a day Scott’s face is never going to forget.

                Head-butt.

                Jackson reels away, the pain of a broken nose coming and passing. But it did what Scott had to hoping for, because Jackson isn’t on top. Scott has slipped from his grip and he’s kneeling over nothing. The Scott’s fist hammers into the side of his head and Jackson isn’t kneeling, he’s falling. Scott doesn’t let up, presses the advantage Jackson had so carelessly given him.

                Claws rip through his skin, drawing a few beads of blood before his preternatural healing kicks in and the wounds fade without a mark. Quick hands land across his face. The blows are particularly powerful, but there are so many, so fast, that Jackson can’t get his bearings long enough to fight back. A foot kicks into his side, and that strike _is_ strong. Jackson actually hears a rib crack.

                The wolf fades out, weak and pathetic humanity rising to the surface. And Scott _hesitates_.

                Jackson surges forward. Hands, clawed again, wrap around McCall’s throat and squeeze. Pinpricks of blood seep out around his fingers and trail down Scott’s neck, unable to heal with his nails still digging in. And he struggles, flailing about uselessly. But he can’t dislodge Jackson’s grip. Because Jackson absolutely refuses to lose. He won’t. He can’t.

                And then Scott stills and his eyes close, and Jackson lets go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think.


	7. How Does One Train a Werewolf Army, Part II

                Derek watches the fight with warring emotions. On one hand, he hates to see his Pack fight amongst themselves. On the other, he’s proud because they’re strong. Jackson, specifically has shocked him. As a man, he’d been stronger than Scott. But Scott’s been Wolf longer, should have been better able to dominate his opponent.

                And Scott had hesitated.

                None of them can afford to hesitate. Not during war. And, worse, the hesitation hadn’t been about hurting his packmate, but about hurting someone who looked _human_. Which, you know, are exactly the kinds of people he’s going to have to _kill_.

                Dammit.

                Derek feared this would happen. Scott operates on a sliding scale of morality. Some things are _wrong_. Some things are _right_. And there is _nothing_ in between. But where something lies in the balance depends on what he feels. And Scott has always believed that killing humans is wrong.

                Derek, typically, is inclined to agree with him. Killing humans is pointless and reckless, it draws attention with no benefit. There  is no purpose in the slaughtering of the innocent. But the people coming after them. They can be monstrous. Far more monstrous than any werewolf. And they’re coming to kill him, and Scott cannot hesitate unless he wants to die.

                And Jackson has taken the advantage. Good. For all his self-centered arrogance, the kid has the instinct. Young as he is, he already knows. The games these children play are more than serious. They are deadly. This pup, this infant of a werewolf, already knows the basic truth of existence: win or die. But he’s trying too hard. Still striving for the illusive perfect that will never obtained. So while Scott needs to learn the lethality of all things, Jackson has a different lesson. The final, unthinkable, inarguable unfairness of life. That some are smarter, others stronger or faster, and no force at his command can make him better than his gifts.

                He cannot be perfect. He cannot be the best.

                Jackson cannot be anything more than exactly what he is.

                Scott blacks out and Jackson releases him, expression smug. Well. Derek will take care of that soon enough.

                “Stiles, go wake up Scott.” Derek’s words are barked orders, disenfranchised from his thoughts. He’s going to put on a show, and his character is clear. The Alpha. Cold and calculating and precise. Stronger and faster and more than any of the betas will ever be. He steps away from his emotions and prepares to make the point.

                “Wha hap’n” Scott slurs, still disoriented from the lack of oxygen.

                “You hesitated, and Jackson kicked your ass.” Derek snaps. The bare bones of the facts, because Scott’s lesson is second. Jackson, as the victor, has the honor of being the first built up and the first torn down. “Now get out the way.” The three begin to scurry to the side, and he points at Jackson. “Not you.”

                “What?” Still hostile. He doesn’t like answering to Derek. He probably hasn’t had to answer to anyone in a long time. Too fucking bad. Derek is his goddamned Alpha and he will respect that. Even if Derek has to beat him bloody for the message to really sink in.

                “You won. Now you get to fight me.” Derek says, still serious. No hint of any emotion at all. He can’t afford them right now. And he doesn’t summon the Wolf. Jackson is still recovering from the last time Derek had put his hands on him; he doesn’t need pain right now. Well, not physical pain. There is always pain when your ideals are destroyed, your beliefs corrupted, your whole life reduced to nothing. And that kind of wound is always the slowest to heal.

                But Derek doesn’t have a choice. Jackson’s pursuit of perfection is a virus. Gangrene in his soul. And Derek cannot teach him to be Pack until he’s removed the infection. Even if he has to cleave a piece of the boy away with it

                Before one can learn truth, one must unlearn lies.

                “Come at me.” Derek orders. And Jackson, for once, is eager to obey. But he’s cautious. Say what you will, the boy isn’t stupid; he remembers the ease with which Derek had decimated him before. But Derek does nothing, doesn’t even raise his fists. And Jackson finally decides to make a move. It’s a calculated strike, a quick jab. Much like his start with Scott. Derek steps swiftly to the side and lets his opponent stumble forward without touching him. “What are you doing, Jackson?”

                Jackson doesn’t bother to respond with words, just turns and throws another punch. This one doesn’t touch him either. A growl rumbles in Jackson’s throat, his frustration getting the better of him already.

                “What are you doing, Jackson?” He plays the words with confusion. Like he honestly cannot understand what Jackson is trying to do right now when he’s supposed to be fighting.

                A rapid barrage of wild punches that don’t get anywhere near their targeted destination. Derek steps, shuffles, and dodges effortlessly. He pauses after each move and asks what he’s doing, intentionally infuriating in his untouchable taunting. And as Jackson becomes more and more enraged, more and more determined to prove that he can be the best—Can be perfect. Can win this fight that he went into _knowing_ he was going to lose—he becomes more and more unfocused. His swings are rough, indistinct. It wouldn’t even register if he ever managed to land a hit, so disjointed are his attacks.

                The point has been made, Jackson just doesn’t realize it yet. But Derek does.

                A single move, lightning fast and serpentine smooth. His dodge turns into an attack. Step and turn. A heavy blow that crushes his recently broken and healed nose. Arms wrapping under and around Jackson’s, hands locked behind his head as he struggles to break the indestructible hold. Furious snarls spill from his lips, spittle flies, blood drips. Jackson looks rabid.

                “What are you doing, Jackson?”

                “Fighting!”

                “Fighting is not the same thing as winning.”

                “Is that what you want? You want me to say I lost? Fine! I lost!”

                “What are you doing, Jackson?”

                “Losing! I’m losing, you dick!”

                “You’re losing.” Derek nods, shoving Jackson away from him. “Why?”

                “Because you’re the fucking Alpha!”

                “I am. And?”

                “And? And I’m a beta.”

                “So?”

                “So I lost.”

                “You lost because you’re a beta.”

                “Yes. I lost because I’m a beta and you’re the Alpha.”

                “Are you saying I’m better than you? That you’re my inferior?”

                “You know! You know you are! What the hell is your problem?!”

                “You, Jackson. You’re my problem. Because you’re not perfect. You aren’t the best. You aren’t even close.”

                “Shut up!” Jackson charges again.

                “ _Stay_!” Derek growls and his feet become rooted to the earth. “ _Listen to me_. You are not perfect. You are not the best. You are Jackson the beta wolf, and nothing else. You will never be anything more than that. And trying to force the entire fucking universe to bend to your delusional beliefs is going to get you killed.”

                Jackson looks lost as the anger bleeds from his face. So completely confused and uncertain. “What are you talking about?”

                “You will never be perfect. You will never be the best. You are my Beta. Nothing more, nothing less. And trying to prove that you’re something you aren’t is stupid and pointless. You will _always_ fail. And trying to prove it to an Agent is going to be deadly. Now go stand next to Stiles.”

                Jackson shovels to obey. Derek shifts his attention to his next target. Scott stiffens when their eyes meet. “Scott, your turn.”

                “Uh…”

                “Come take your lumps.” Derek maintains his emotionless façade. This fight is going to be more difficult. Because it isn’t as simple as inciting a rage. Now, Scott’s problem is much more complex.

                Scott steps forward hesitantly. There’s nothing like watching the guy who just kicked _your_ ass get _his_ ass handed to him to make a guy fist shy. But he summons his wolf, just the same. Derek doesn’t. Not just because he doesn’t have to, but because he needs not to. Scott needs to hit someone who looks human, even if he knows he isn’t.

                “Hit me.” The demand is not a command, Scott does not _have_ to obey.

                “Aren’t gonna, you know,” Scott promptly begins clawing at the air.

                “No. Now hit me.” Scott hesitates, and Derek loses patience. He sends a hard uppercut to his jaw, and steps back. “Hit me.”

                Scott goes on the attack, but he’s not as fast as he was against Jackson. Punches pulled, brushing at Derek’s flesh but never doing any kind of damage. Derek isn’t even trying to avoid them. “Hit me, Scott!” It’s a roar, but still not a command. Scott has to get over this right now. Before it _kills_ him.

                But Scott continues to hold back. And Derek is going to have to push harder. He makes sure to keep his speed with the limits of human, and punches Scott in the face. Hard. The beta stumbles back a bit, but to his credit, he jumps right back in. But he’s still not doing all that he’s capable of.

                Scott’s punches land, because Derek wants them to, he’s trying to make a point. And for every punch Scott barely lands, every glancing blow, Derek pops off a serious strike. “Hit me, Scott. I’m holding back because I could break you with on hand. Why are you?”

                Scott freezes. Poor kid probably hadn’t even realized what he was doing. But not knowing isn’t going to save him when the hunters come. “I’m, I’m not.”

                “Every time you hit me, I should fall back. I should stumble, I should be moved. You’re pulling punches, Scott. Tell me why.”

                “I’m not!”

                “Tell me.” This time, it is a command.

                “You look human!” Scott stares blankly after the words come out of his own mouth.

                “We’re going to war against who again?” Derek cocks his head to the side. “Oh, yes. That’s right, _humans_.”

                “I’m sorry, I just don’t—” Scott stammers, unsure how to defend himself since he hadn’t even known what was happening.

                “You don’t want to hurt humans.” Derek shrugs. “Too bad. They want to hurt you.”

                “It’s _wrong_ to hurt people.”

                “It’s _right_ to defend yourself.”

                “Killing is never right!”

                “You almost did. Stiles chained you up to keep everyone else safe. You nearly mauled your friends. Nearly killed them all.”

                “But I didn’t!”

                “Because someone _stopped_ you.”

                “I was out of control! It’s not my fault!”

                “Bullshit, Scott. _Out of control_ is just code for ‘I don’t want to admit I’m the kind of person who would do such things.’ But you are. _You_ did what you did because _you_ are what you are. Not because you’re a werewolf. Not because Peter was crazy. Because deep inside of _you,_ you’re angry and you’re scared and you want to make someone, _anyone_ , hurt so you’ll hurt less. Self-control, or its lack, had _nothing_ to do with it.”

                Scott’s shaking at this point, and Derek can smell the salt from the tears he hasn’t let himself shed. And that’s enough. He’s made his point. He’ll have to wait and see if it took root, or if he’ll be teaching the same lesson again tomorrow. “You can be angry, Scott. You can fight, and you can kill. But it doesn’t have to make you a monster. Only you can do that.”

                Derek turns to face the rest of the pack. He still has to see Stiles fight, find his weaknesses and so he can tear him down and build him up. Make the pup stronger. But he’s tired. Not physically because these young wolves are no match for his experience and power, but mentally, emotionally, he’s drained. He’s not a leader. Was never _supposed_ to be. But he is now. And he doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing.

                 Stiles is wide-eyed and slaw-jawed. Bewildered. Jackson is completely out of it. Still replaying his own lesson. “Go home. All of you. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Without another word, he bounds into the trees to lose himself. Just for a little while. He needs to remember his own lessons, taught long ago by a man long dead.

                He may be the Alpha. He may be twenty-two and all grown up. But, no matter how old he gets, he’s still going to be that fifteen year old _kid_ who screwed everything up. And he needs to focus on how to not do that again.

                He’d been brash and reckless. Young and stupid and “in love”. And he’d thrown away _everything_ without meaning to. And he’d watched everything that mattered burn to ashes in the name of _nothing_.

                And, fuck it, he needs his dad. He needs Laura. He needs someone to tell him what to do now. Because he has no idea how to teach these kids how to be Wolf, or how to get over their hang-ups, or how to turn them into _soldiers_ without turning them into _killers_ in turn.

                But he has to. They’re his Pack, and that makes them family. Makes them _sacred_. He has to make this work. He has to make them strong enough to survive anything. Because he can’t lose his pack, his family, again. Not a second time. He won’t survive it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think.


	8. Creepy, Tired, and Strange

                Being at Derek’s house when he isn’t there is _hella_ creepy. Like three, no, four times as creepy as when Derek is home. And Stiles doesn’t want to go anywhere near the burnt-out, abandoned crime-scene of a building. Because even _his_ weirdness doesn’t ignore that much bad mojo in one place. It’s like the perfect evil villain’s lair or work station of a particularly violent serial killer.

                Seriously. No neighbors for miles. Lots of trees to help muffle the sound of agonized screaming. The general keep-out-iness of the property. Perfect for nefarious purposes.

                And Derek just shot up a few points on the creep-o-meter for living here. All by himself. In the middle of nowhere. In the house that’s still crispy from that time his whole family _burned to death_ in the basement.

                He also shoots up the oh-god-that’s-so-fucking-sad meter. Because, dude. It _is_.

                Which is another reason Stiles doesn’t go any closer than a good ten feet from the porch. It’s creepy as all get out, but…Stiles figures it’s also kind of sacred ground, you know? Just walking in and plopping himself down would be super disrespectful. Not just to Derek, who is his Alpha and kinda-sorta friend, but to Derek’s _family_. Like traipsing about through a cemetery with no regard to the graves and then sitting down on the tombstone of someone you didn’t know.

                “What the hell are you doing here, Stiles.” Derek sighs. And he just sounds so damn tired that Stiles is tempted to say nevermind, go home, and forget about his possibly genius idea. But his genius idea might help Derek, and the pack, out, so…

                “I wanted to talk to you about something.” Stiles shrugs and grins, because he doesn’t know what else to do. Should he bow or something? Lie belly up and present his throat? Is there some kind of Wolf culture thing that one’s supposed to do when greeting your Alpha? Or when proposing a, possibly, brilliant plan to him? Stiles doesn’t know. He wishes he did. And he plans to research the hell out of it later, just to be sure.

                “What?” Derek doesn’t invite him inside, doesn’t show even the slightest inkling that he’d rather have this conversation inside rather than out here. Which makes Stiles glad he didn’t go in in the first place.

                “Well, Scott and Jackson said something about you wanting to expand the pack, and I had an idea. I thought we could _not_ quit the lacrosse team. Instead, we have Jackson and Scott tell everyone about your awesome coaching and that’s why Scott got so good and Jackson got even better than he already was and I don’t suck quite as much. And then we convince them all to come to your training thing. We’ll make it cheap for em. Like ten bucks a month per head or something. And then the whole team, more or less, will be here. And you can scout for good recruits. And the three of us won’t suspiciously quit the team just when the Argents come to town looking for a pack of rabid werewolves and draw attention to ourselves.

                “But you can’t do that shooting thing with them, obviously. Because they’ll be human and getting shot would, like, kill them. And then my dad would have to come after you again, and you’d be on the run, and we couldn’t train here, or expand the pack. And the hunters would kill us all while you were hiding from the cops. And that would be bad.” Stiles finally pauses to take a breath. And the award for best babble of the century goes to…

                “You want me to coach lacrosse?” Derek says succinctly, making Stiles’ award winning ramble seem just about completely pointless. And his plan sound moronic. So, good start.

                “You played in high school right?” Stiles double-checks, but doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘Know thy enemy’ and all, and he’d thought Derek was his and Scott’s enemy for a while there and he’s done his homework. “And you’re ripped, so I know you can put together some sort of routine to run the guys through. And you already told my dad that’s what Scott, Jackson, and I were doing, so it kind of really makes sense. Plus, a whole bunch of strong, teenaged athletes you can sculpt and mold and find good werewolves in. So, goodness there.” Stiles takes another breath, smiling helplessly at the big, bad wolf that’s almost, maybe, his friend.

                “It’s not terrible.” Derek muses and, coming from the sour wolf himself, that’s damn near a _Stiles, you’re a genius_. “I’ll think about it. Don’t do anything yet.”

                “Sir, yes, sir.” Stiles snaps off a salute, then brings his hand down and stares at it. Why the hell did he salute? This isn’t the army!

                “Stiles?” Derek asks, still so tired.

                “Yes, Derek?”

                “Go home.”

                “Yep. Homeward bound I am. Off to do battle with the horrors of algebra and chemistry.” Stiles agrees quickly, already walking backwards towards his car even as he speaks. He’s happy the whole drive home, the agony of unfinished homework cannot touch him right now. Derek is considering his idea. Derek had practically complimented his idea, in a Derek-y sort of way.

                He doesn’t have to be research-guy, default member of the pack. He can be helpful. He can be, like, their _strategist_!

                Screw algebra and chemistry! He’s going to stop at the bookstore and buying every book on war history and strategy he can find, plus a few on recruitment. And wolf pack behavior. Ohh, and some leadership guides and exercise manuals, just in case Derek needs some ideas.

                Derek may be the Alpha wolf, but that doesn’t mean he should have to carry all the weight around here. The big guy needs help, and Stiles is his Pack; he’s going to assist in any way he can.

* * *

                Derek comes to the realization that he’s stupid while he listens to the sound of Stiles’ jeep fading with distance. Of course having the only other werewolf Christopher Argent _knows_ quit the lacrosse team with _two other_ teenage boys is going to make it glaringly obvious that _they’re all_ wolves. What the hell had he been thinking? Oh, yeah, he’d focused on _one_ problem and didn’t realize that solving it would make the others worse.

                Stiles’ plan makes a lot of sense. Derek has no way of integrating himself into the lives of his potential betas, no way to search for the traits that would make a good Wolf. He can’t give the Bite out randomly, and he’s doesn’t know anyone else in this town. Not anymore.

                But if he’s coaching? Well, that’s two dozen athletic, young men. He can scout them out for the qualities he needs. And those that meet his requirements, they’re more than likely to survive because they’re teenaged athletes. Healthy and strong, quick and agile. Good, tough boys that won’t reject the Bite. Won’t die slowly and painfully, oozing black blood and shaking with agony.

                So even though Derek had told Stiles not do anything, that he was merely considering the idea, he’s already decided to do it. It’s the best strategy that Derek has right now; it’s the _only_ strategy he has right now.

                But, for now, he needs to sleep. He hasn’t slept since the night before he’d told Scott and Jackson about the possibility of war. Too busy biting Stiles and looking for other prospects. Too busy making frantic call to every contact he has, paving the way for their escape and doing everything he could to ensure they never actually have to make one. Too busy driving into the next town to get a gun without Sheriff Stilinski knowing about it and asking questions Derek doesn’t want to answer. Too busy shooting his own damn Pack. Too busy watching them fight each other like pit bulls in the ring. Too busy showing them all their weaknesses that are going to get them all killed.

                Just too fucking busy.

                Derek keeps his steps smooth and even, even though there’s no one left to see the weariness hiding just beneath the surface. He’s far too used to putting on the invulnerable façade to ever really stop. But he cannot stop the sag in his shoulders as he crosses the threshold. The weight of the dead burdening his frame.

                “Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad.” His lips quirk into a mockery of a smile, nothing but despair in his face and eyes as he greets every life that ended here. Every person he killed. “Hey, Laura…I miss you. I miss you all.”

                He’d apologize, if he thought it would mean anything. But there is no forgiveness here. The people he needs it from are _dead_.

                He killed them.

                So, Derek doesn’t apologize. He just walks up the rickety stairs, wood weakened by flames long since extinguished, and enters his childhood room. What’s left of it, anyway. The roof is gone, destroyed and collapsed, pieces of it littering the floor that threatens to give out with every step. Half the walls are gone and the door went with them, leaving the mattress thrown on floor exposed.  The walls that remain are scored with black burns. Dusty remnants of ash still smeared across what used to be forest green paint.

                Derek yanks his shirt and flops onto the bed. Sometimes he misses pillows and blankets, but right now isn’t one of them. He’s just too fucking tired to give a damn. Two seconds after his body hits the mattress, Derek is dead asleep.

* * *

                This is, without a doubt, the oddest check-out Erica has ever witnessed. Who checks out this many books in one day? Like, seriously, there is absolutely no reason for this guy to need _twenty-six_ books today. And what is up with his topic selection? War Through the Ages; The Rise and Fall of Julius Caesar; History’s Greatest Battles; The Art of War; Gangs: Surrogate Families for America’s Abandoned Youth; The Outsiders; Wolves and Packs; Alpha Wolf, Beta Wolf; Omega: The Lone Wolf; So You Wanna Get Ripped in Thirty Days; A Professional Athlete’s Guide to Success; Proper Nutrition and Exercise; Wilderness Survival 101; Hunting for Dummies; How to be a Leader; Be the Sun, Not the Shadow: A Leadership Skills Manual; plus ten medical texts.

                Really. What. The. _Hell_.

                “Will that be all for you today, sir?” The question is required, but she can’t imagine that he could want anything else. He has an odd and varied assortment sitting right in front of him. Even if he’s some kind of genius, he’ll still need some time to get through these babies first. After all, the war histories and medical texts alone are thicker than her freaking _arm_.

                “Actually, no. I need to order a few more. If that’s okay?” He says it kind of urgently, and if she didn’t have math with him she’d think he was some college freshman fighting the evils of mid-terms. But she knows he’s just a high school junior, just like her. So what the hell is he doing?

                “Of course. How can I help you?” She grins and bears it, while silently damning the idiot who thought of that policy. It’s a _library_ , not a store. She shouldn’t have to order anything for this guy. But she does.

                “I need...” He rattles off another half dozen books, a few from each of his apparent obsessions, and they’re so lucky there’s no line or there would be a fricking _riot_.

                “Anything else?” She jumps in when he pauses, hoping he realizes just how big a pain in the ass he’s being right now.

                “Uh…” Oh, he _cannot_ be serious! He smiles sheepishly, and she thinks he’s finally got the message. “Nope, that’s it.”

                “Fantastic.” Erica smiles, and _means_ it, “We’ll call you when your order comes in.”

                “Great! Thanks!” He grins, and he’s so very excited about something. Then his face falls. “Uh…can I get, like, a box or something? I only have two arms…”

                And that is something that Erica is happy to help him with it means that he hurries up and gets the hell out already. “Of course. Let me just grab one out of the back.”

                One empty box and four minutes later, he’s finally gone. She sighs a breath of relief. There was some kind of strange hovering around the guy, and Erica doesn’t need anything else in her life to be less than normal. The seizures and terrible side-effects of her medication are _quite_ enough, thank you very much. She doesn’t need some freak obsessed with war and history and _wolves_ and medicine making her even more of an outcast, even if she was only doing her job.

                This is a small town. One person sees her with the weirdo and word spreads and shifts until, all of a sudden, they’re friends or dating or something. And people will look at her with that horrible mix of pity and distaste.

                And Erica just does _not_ need that shit in her life right now. Or, you know, _ever_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the extent of my knowledge, none of the books mentioned above don’t actually exist. With the notable exception of “The Art of War”. Which is, of course, a must for anyone planning warfare.
> 
> Let me know what you think.


	9. Suffocation

                “Consent was given? A child over the age of fifteen may choose the Bite, according to the Code.” The tone is formal, but the question itself is just a ritual. They have reviewed his evidence, heard his accounts. They know everything, and their decision has already been made. But the ceremony is important to them, and it must be followed to the letter.

                “It was not. The then Alpha, Peter Hale, bit him while he was in the woods one night with a friend. Not only was permission neither asked nor granted, but he was left to figure out what he was becoming by himself.” The words fall from his tongue, and Chris just wants to cut it out. This is his baby girl’s boyfriend, and he’s offering him up like the lamb to slaughter.

                “I see. And human blood has been spilt?”

                “A school bus driver was mauled to death, a store clerk had his throat ripped out, a janitor was gutted, two hunters were strung up by their own entrails, and, of course, there is the matter of Kate.”

                “Yes. She broke the Code and burned the Hale Pack alive, correct?”

                “She did.”

                “And the actions of this Peter Hale were those of revenge?”

                “We believe so, yes.” It was vengeance and it was justice, and Scott shouldn’t have to _die_ for this, but he’s _going_ to.

                “But Peter Hale is dead now. His nephew, a Derek Hale, is currently the pack Alpha?”

                “Yes.”

                “The scion of a slain pack, vengeance left unfinished, murdered humans, and the forceful turning of at least one minor. These are your charges? You were witness, or else have irrefutable proof of these allegations?”

                “I was and do.” He wishes he didn’t. Without proof, he could make this all go away. Could allow himself to be ignored and the Hale Pack left in peace. But he has it, all neatly collected during Peter Hale’s brief reign. The proof is there, unhidden and indisputable.

                “You seek the ultimate punishment for these crimes. Not just death to those guilty, but to all those who might align with them. You seek to dispense with the Code and to declare war on the Hale Pack of Beacon Hills, California?”

                Chris wants to say _no_. To say he was wrong. That the Hale Pack doesn’t _deserve_ this. But he’d summoned the Council, he had made this happen. And there isn’t anything left he can do to stop what’s coming. If he withdraws his accusations now, they’ll launch an investigation. They’ll see the truth in his allegations, and then they’ll find out why he removed his claim. They find out about Scott  
and Allison and how she _protected_ him when she should have been _killing_ him.

                There’s no going back now.

                “…I do.” For his daughter’s sake, there is nothing Christopher Argent won’t do. Including declare war.

                “We hear your plea, and are moved. From this moment on, Argents shall war with Hales. Until they are all dead, or we are.”

                The words echo in his head, and he can’t breathe. It’s done.

                War has been declared and the end is coming for them all.

                He can’t _breathe_.

* * *

                There is a solemn sense of finality looming over the house. It’s stifling, and Allison can’t breathe through the overbearing feeling. No one tells her what’s going on. Her father has made it very clear, without saying a word to anyone within her hearing, that she’s not to be involved in…whatever’s happening, and the other hunters seem content to follow his lead for now.

                But Allison isn’t stupid. She can put the pieces together on her own. Derek warns of an impending war and fifty hunters waltz into town, holding secret meetings and hauling some serious hardware. Now, now is just when they’ve finished making the decision everyone always knew they would.

                She’s tempted to call Scott, to warn him. But she’s already called once this week, and two in a row might be enough to gall her father into action. The fact that action is inevitable at this point, that the war is coming and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop it, is irrelevant. In this instance, later is so much better than sooner.

                And, besides, Scott already knows. This isn’t news. He’d known this was coming even before she did. So she doesn’t have a reason to call him, other than because she wants to. And that’s not good enough anymore. Not if she doesn’t want to get them all killed.

                She’s tempted to run. To defect now, before her family has the opportunity to force her hand. But she thinks, _hopes_ , that she can stay for a little. Can play double agent. Listen in on plans and get a warning out.

                Allison is prepared to bide her time, but when push comes to shove…well, she has a bag packed and a determination to get the hell out of here. Derek might not take her, but she can hide with Scott and/or Stiles. When she runs, she trusts her dad to let her go. He wouldn’t risk the chance that her defection  will end in her execution at Argent hands. Or drawing attention to the family now that they’re preparing to wage a secret war.

                Yeah, there’s a lot of leverage in her hands for when she decides it’s time to get out of dodge.

                Allison nearly jumps when her phone goes off, vibrating violently in her pocket. She’s way too jumpy for a girl trying not to draw attention to herself, but no one can really blame her for being a little tense. She pulls her phone out, expecting a pouting text of boredom from Lydia whose eyes, turns out, are resistible if your name is Christopher Argent and your daughter is grounded for consorting with werewolves.

                _I left you a gift under your bed. Try not to have to use it_ ~~Daddy

                So, not Lydia then…

                Allison isn’t sure what her father’s getting at, but she scurries up the stairs to find out. She closes the door carefully, wishing her parents hadn’t taken the lock away from her after they found out about Scott. She makes do by shoving her computer chair under the knob. It won’t stop anyone determined to get in, but it’ll buy her a few seconds.

                She flops onto the floor and peers into the darkness between the floor and her mattress. The shape is instantly familiar and a smile spreads across her face. Her hand reaches out and pulls the bow into the light. It’s a compact bow, collapsible. And a quiver of steel arrows, sharp and deadly. Allison glides the tip of her finger over the edge of the point so gently as to barely touch it all, and the digit comes away dripping crimson.

                It’s not deep, but only because her touch was so light. These are not arrows meant to slow down a werewolf so she can put a pull in its head. These are so fine she hadn’t even felt the bite of the blade against her skin until the bleeding started. This is the kind of arrow that shreds through skin and muscle, slips between hairline gaps in bone, and kills. With her skill and these arrows, Allison can put a shaft of steel into a beating heart from a hundred paces. Let it fly and watch it spear between ribs.

                She could kill a werewolf with these.

                She could kill a _man_ with these.

                The question is why her father gave it to her. She has plenty of bows she can, but won’t, use against werewolves. Her little misadventure with Kate had proved that. So why give her this? A bow she can hide easily in her backpack or a large purse and arrows that kill instead of wound.

_Try not to have to use it._

                Allison blinks, surprised. He _wants_ her to run. When and if she needs to. He wants her to be able to get away clean, should the family try and draft her into this war. But…he can’t. He has to know she’d run straight to Scott, straight to the enemy. That she’d take this finely crafted weapon and use it. Against the Argent’s, against their _family_.

                Which means that he has a really good reason. Chris Argent never doesn’t anything on a whim. He has back-ups for every plan, contingency plans for every back-up. After she found out about the “family business”, she’d spent an inordinate amount of time snooping through everything she could get near. Including a massive filing cabinet filled with spreadsheets, lists, and plans: A through Z, AA through ZZ, and AAA through ZZZ. It was surreal and vaguely terrifying.

                She should probably look back into all that, now that she’s preparing to commit treason against her family. There might be battle plans and the like stored in there. Hmm, the kinda cute photographer guy would probably let her borrow a good camera. And Jackson, who her parents approve of way too much, could buy her some alone time in her father’s office.

                Well, there’s the start of a good plan. All she needs to do now talk it over with Jackson, and maybe Stiles because Stiles a freakishly talented at this devious planning thing.

* * *

                Isaac closes his eyes tightly and prepares for what he knows is coming. He got a D in chemistry. His dad doesn’t like it when he doesn’t do well in school. And Isaac doesn’t like it when his father doesn’t like things.

                He doesn’t like it when it _hurts_.

                “It’s okay, Isaac. I’m not mad.” His father placates, but Isaac knows it’s a lie. Father is _always_ angry.

                “…really…?” He doesn’t believe it, not even a little. But he allows himself the vaguest glimmer of hope that maybe, just this once, it can be alright.

                “Of course,” It still surprises him how easy it is for his father to sound so calm, so reasonable. Especially right before the rage. “Though I am going to have to _punish_ you.”

                The flinch is irrepressible and pointless. It doesn’t stop his father from wrapping a hand around his arm, fingers digging in deep. Isaac already can feel the purple-black bruises rippling across his flesh, five pinpoints of pain. A rough jerk yanks Isaac from his chair, sends him tumbling to the floor. There’s a popping sound from his shoulder, and Isaac bites back a scream. His teeth tear through the soft skin of his lips, but he doesn’t make a sound. Father doesn’t like it when he screams.

                A few vicious kicks to the ribs, twisting the shoulder of the arm his father still hasn’t released, and Isaac feels himself moving. Dragged. Oh. Oh no. He knows where this is going, and he wants to sob. But he can’t. Father doesn’t like it when he cries, doesn’t like it when his son is weak. And Isaac strives in all aspects to not do things his father doesn’t like. Especially when he’s in a rage.

                He hasn’t needed to go to the hospital since he moved to Beacon Hills three years ago, and Isaac would really like to keep it that way. He doesn’t want to be asked the awkward questions again, doesn’t want to have to lie again.

                The steady thud-thud-thud of the legs he can’t seem to get up and under him against the stairs is a jarring confirmation of everything he already knew. The basement.

                “Dad, _please_. I’ll bring it up. Please. _Don’t_.” Father doesn’t like it when he begs either, but, oh god, he doesn’t want this. Not again.

                “I know you will.” He growls, and Isaac knows he can’t get out of this. This is happening. It’s happening _right now_ and there’s _nothing_ Isaac can do or say to stop it. He stops moving and the hand around his arm finally relinquishes its hold. He can hear the sound of his father shoving the key into the padlock.

                Isaac doesn’t want this.

                It’s a bad idea. A stupid, useless idea. But, he does it anyways. He starts to crawl away.

                He doesn’t get far.

                A foot crashes down onto his back, and all the air in Isaac’s lungs goes rushing out of him in an agonized whimper. “Where do you think you’re going?”

                “I’m sorry.” He sobs. It won’t do any good. It never does. But the words slip from his bloody lips regardless. Over and over again on repeat. He can’t make himself stop. “I’m sorry.”

                His father scoffs in disgust, stomping down on his back again before pushing and pulling Isaac up against the freezer. Heavy handed punches fall like anvils across his face. The wet snap of bone and cartilage collapsing rings in his ears, and the bitter-copper taste of blood coats the back of his throat and tongue.

                He wants to die.

                “I’m sorry.”

                A harsh shove and, already unsteady, Isaac tumbles into hell. He cracks his head on the floor and spots of sickly yellow and empty black spatter across his vision. Then his father is shoving his legs in, and Isaac is bent nearly double, lying on his back with his knees in the air.

                “I’m sorry.”

                The lid of the freezer slams shut, slamming against his knees. There’s not a lot of space in freezers, but Isaac knows this one better than most people know the backs of their hands. He knows that if he moves like _this_ and shifts like _that_ , he can put his feet against the floor. Legs still bent at the knee, but in a more natural position. And with a little wriggling he can get his arms wrapped around his chest to help keep him warm. He braces the back of his head, still throbbing and—if the wet warmth trickling down the back of his neck is any indicator—bleeding, against a wall. He knows to keep his head propped up while he bleeds.

                “I’m sorry.”

                It only takes three inches of liquid to drown in. And his shoulders prevent the fluid from moving farther down the freezer. If he turns his head in his sleep, he could wake up breathing blood. Or he could never wake up at all. And as terrible as his life is, however much he sometimes wishes for death, he’s not about to do it himself.

                “I’m sorry.”

                Whether it’s cowardice or bravery, Isaac doesn’t know. Doesn’t care.

                The freezer is small, only holding so much air. Enough to last the night, his continued existence proves, but he’s not about to waste it. So he finally gets his traitorous mouth to stop apologizing. After that it’s just a matter of convincing his brain that, even though he’s in a small, dark, enclosed space with no air coming in, he isn’t actually going to die. Probably.

                But the human mind loves to play tricks on itself. And so, even though Isaac knows there’s still plenty of air left, there always is, he can’t help the stifling feeling of suffocation from smothering him.

                He can’t breathe.

                He can’t _breathe_.


	10. War Material

                Derek sleeps through the rest of the afternoon, the entire night, and most of the following morning. Because he may be a werewolf but he still needs at least five hours a night. And he has been getting them. He was only making up for lost time.

                Which is why, at ten-thirty, he’s woken up from a light sleep by the sound of approaching footsteps.

                Derek is up like a shot, jolting from the fuzzy warmth of sleep to ice-cold awareness and alarm. The old Hale house is the first place the hunters will go. They know who he is. Peering through the broken window, however, reveals a different kind of guest approaching his husk of a house. A much more welcome visitor.

                He grabs a clean shirt from the duffel beside the mattress and makes this way back through the house to the door, swinging it open to allow Gabriel entrance.

                “I love what you haven’t done with the place.” Gabe greets. He’s dressed in jeans and a tee-shirt and Derek doesn’t think he’s ever actually seen the man before without a uniform on. His dishwater blonde hair is still cut in the familiar buzz of his profession. And he makes up for his five foot eleven height by being wide as an ox.                

                “The Hale Pack sees you, Gabriel Davis of Pack Summers, and welcomes you into our territory as a friend.” It’s an old tradition, and Derek never thought he’d ever actually have to say it. But he is Alpha now, and better safe than sorry. The last thing he wants to do is piss off his arms dealer who happens to have a veritable armory on wheels.

                Gabe’s sarcasm washes off his face the moment the words start pouring Derek’s lips, and he figures he made the right decision. “I thank you for the courtesy, Alpha Hale.” He bows his head deeply as a show of respect, but not submission. He remains loyal to the Summers Pack, not Derek. Which is just fine with both of them. Derek nods back, only half as deep. He does outrank Gabe now, and this is his territory after all.

                “So, you have what I asked for?” Derek says when the somber moment ends.

                “Yep.” A careless gesture towards a rather large truck parked next to the Camaro. “Everything you asked for. Which took some doing, by the way.”

                “I appreciate it, Gabe.” Derek sighs, instantly relieved by the knowledge that he’ll be better able to protect his Pack now. He pulls his phone from his pocket, calls his accountant, and organizes for Captain Gabriel Davis to receive a shocking amount of money deposited into a Cayman account. After that’s all taken care of, the two wolves set about moving the merchandise.

                The boxes sit conspicuously in his would-be living room after Gabe takes off again. Or maybe it just seems that way to Derek. After all, they’re just your average, run of the mill brown cardboard boxes. He could have anything in them. He could finally be moving into the house properly for all anyone knows.

                Until he rips the tape from them and begins sorting through the arsenal he’s just acquired.

                A low whistle filters through his lips as he pulls out the very nice armor. It’s light-weight, not that any self-respecting werewolf would a problem hauling something much heavier. So light, in fact, that Derek cannot suppress a smirk. They can wear it under their everyday clothes. Their chances of surviving this this just went up twenty-three percent.

                The handguns are shiny-black and come with ten clips each, which Derek never asked for and thus didn’t _pay_ for. Derek shakes his head. Sly little bastard. Sometimes, when the sarcasm is flying and the old wounds sting, Derek forgets that they’re friends. Or at least as close to friends as Derek gets with anyone. For a moment, he pauses, takes a second to hope Gabe doesn’t get fired over this.

                Then he gets back to work because the pack needs this equipment, and Gabe’s a big boy; he can take care of himself. The same cannot be said for the newest members of the Hale pack.

                The uniforms are perfect, varying sizes for the different wolves Derek has to put them on. Some of which he hasn’t even met yet. But for the betas he already has, he has flawlessly fitted fatigues; the others can be tailored later, when they have someone to actually wear them. The camo pattern is Army standard—not that twiggy backdrop favored by hunters, the normal kind shooting ducks and deer— and will blend seamlessly amongst the woods.

                The thick leather of the boots is strong and supple. The sole hard but textured for silence, sure to fall without a sound even to their supernatural hearing. The trip wire is sturdy and nearly invisible, and he has plans for it that he’s sure will make Scott whine and protest and Stiles gag. But with a few pieces of oak, readily available from the forest that surrounds him, he’ll have garrotes that kill quickly and quietly and a protected—re: booby-trapped—base camp.

                The flash grenades and smoke bombs look like they’re supposed to, but he wasn’t expecting anything different. Gabriel is a good man and a good Wolf, and Derek trusts him as much as he trusts anyone. He considers taking one of each, just to be sure, but he doesn’t want to waste supplies if he doesn’t have to. “Redirecting” military supplies is difficult and risky, and he doesn’t want to make Gabe do it more than is strictly necessary.

                Supplies inspected, Derek carefully boxes everything back up. He’ll put the boys in armor soon enough, and teach them how to use the guns. But he needs them dressed casually and relaxed for what happens next.

                Nothing screams fake I.D. like an anxious face.

* * *

                “Dude. What smells like terror and mint and blood?” Stiles asks Scott as soon as they enter the locker room. It’s mostly empty; they somehow managed to not only be on time, but _early_ for once. “Are we about to find a body again? I have long since crossed that off my list of things I’d like to do. It’s been placed very firmly on the _Never_ Again list.

                Scott takes deep sniff, which even knowing what he’s doing looks weird as hell, “I dunno.”

                “Yes. Thank you, Scott. Very helpful.” Stiles says, but he’s not really paying much attention. Even his sarcasm is kind of light. Mostly because he’s distracted by trying to find the freaking _smell_.

                Scott and Stiles proceed, walking slowly with their noses in the air and inhaling like they’d been holding their breath. Idly, in some place that isn’t deserving of his active attention, Stiles is glad they’re early and no one sees them doing this because, well, they probably look _really_ stupid.

                _Please don’t let it be a body. Please don’t let it be a body_. Stiles isn’t sure who he’s praying to. He was never a big believer in God even before werewolves made themselves a part of his everyday life. Maybe there’s a werewolf god! On second thought, they probably worship the moon. Which Stiles could be down with. The moon definitely exists and it definitely has some measure of control over his life now that he’s of the wolfy persuasion. _Please don’t let it be a body. Please, moon, old friend, old buddy ,old pal, don’t let it be a freaking_ body _._

                The scent trail leads to another person and, uh, awkward.

                Number thirteen: Isaac Lahey, sophomore, midfielder, second string, quick but flinches from contact. Unlikely to make first string as long as he’s afraid of contact. The data flies through Stiles mind, as well as the statistics of his score/miss ratio, and he realizes that he needs to stop hyper-analyzing any and all data he has access to. Because, that right there, that was freaky and he feels like a stalker for no apparent reason. And that shit’s not cool.

                “What happened to your _face_?” Scott demands with the subtlety of a drunken, highlighter yellow bull who’s just stumbled into an exclusively red china shop. Stiles battles valiantly with his urge to face-palm.

                _Smack_.

                He loses.

                Scott and Isaac are both staring at him now. And Stiles is staring at the hand that as defied his will and slapped his own forehead. Stupid hand… “What Scott meant to say was, ‘What happened to your _face_?’ But, you know, nicer and stuff.”

                “I tripped over a log.” Isaac shrugs. “Out in the forest. I hit pretty hard, huh?”

                “Your face could be compared to hamburger, and the hamburger would get offended.” Wow. Stiles really just said that. To a guy he doesn’t know well. Or at all. Awkward: take two, everybody. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I just shouldn’t have words, but that’s usually when I have most of them. Like right now for instance, I should be shutting up and getting ready for practice but here I am, babbling pretty incoherently to you about how I randomly say stuff things all the time and I should really stop talking now.”

                Stiles snaps his mouth closed and Scott and Isaac are staring at him again. Oh, and look! There’s Jackson to make this moment complete. But he, thankfully as far as Stiles is concerned, forgoes any kind of mockery and just sneers like the king douche he is. At which point Scott, also thankfully from Stiles point of view, drags him over to their lockers.

                “You realize he was lying right?” The quiet sound of Jackson’s voice is both startling and weird. Because Mr. Co-Captain Sir is still on the other side of the locker room. “His heartbeat did a mambo when you asked about his face.”

                “Maybe he was embarrassed.” Stiles points out, knowing for a fact that his heart pounds in his ears when he feels humiliated.

                “I also live across the street from him. His dad’s a nutcase.”

                “Did you tell _my_ dad?”

                “No.” Ah, the sweet sound of puzzled arrogance in the morning. “Wasn’t my problem.”

                “So how come you’re mentioning it _now_?” Scott finally decides to join the conversation.

                “Derek said he wanted more people for the pack, right? It’s not my problem, and I don’t really care if he solves it. But, if anyone needs super healing and the ability to rip someone’s throat out, it’s probably him.”

                A moment of silence while the rest of the team filters in and the three of them consider Jackson’s point. And he _does_ have a point. If Isaac’s dad is hurting him, then Stiles thinks the guy should have the option of defending himself and/or scaring the man into compliance. But it’s not his decision to make.

                So he texts Derek. Duh.

 _Potential prospect. Lacrosse practice. #13_ ~~Stiles

                There’s no response and Stiles can only assume that the sourwolf is A, sleeping or B, doing something he deems more important than scouting for new werewolves… Stiles is pretty sure it’s A. And that’s okay because Derek is an unemployed Alpha werewolf living off an inheritance in his dilapidated, burnt husk of a mansion. He doesn’t have a reason to be up at the ungodly hour of six-thirty in the morning.

                Practice is much the same as yesterday’s. Stiles plays well, but he doesn’t play great. He gets another “good hustle” from Danny, but without the ass slapping. Stiles isn’t sure if that’s a bad thing. Does Danny not find him attractive? Or is it that he does, but he doesn’t want to weird out the team by actually being “gay” around them?

                And why will no one tell him if he’s attractive? It’s a simple question, people! He’s not asking you if you want to marry him, or even date. He just wants a little reassurance that his face is aesthetically pleasing!

                And back on track now. Derek finally responses to his text around lunch, and that seems pretty lazy to Stiles. The guy doesn’t have a reason to be up early in the morning, but whilst in the middle of the war his uncle started you’d think he’d manage before noon, seeing as he’s the Alpha which makes him the military equivalent to the president and general all rolled into one person.

                _Be there for afternoon practice. Tell Scott and Jackson. We have somewhere to be later_ ~~Sourwolf (Yes, that’s Derek’s name in Stiles’ contact list. Don’t judge.)

                Yep. No. That’s probably not good.

* * *

                Derek lurks behind the bleachers during the practice, eyes glued to lucky number thirteen. Even from here Derek can smell him. Kind of bitter, but kind of sweet. Lemon-pepper mixed with mint and sweat and blood and so much _fear_. And the boy is quick. Light on his feet and agile. And he’s scared, freezes up every time an opposing player charges. Full-contact is obviously not the kind of sport he needs to be playing.

                But there’s potential there. Derek can use fear. With the promise of strength, of never having to hurt much for long. And the kid would be grateful, loyalty born of gratitude is particularly strong. Stiles was right. Number thirteen is a good prospect for the Bite.

                That decided, Derek shifts his eyes to the first string players. Number six, the goalie, is good. He has quick hands. Quick eyes. There’s potential there, too.

                Further proof that Derek should listen more often when Stiles starts running his mouth. The kid’s babble-talk may be seventy percent random, but the thirty percent that’s actually relevant is useful. Which makes sense he’s not an idiot, near as Derek can tell, just hyper and sarcastic and completely incapable of shutting up for any real length of time.

                The practice ends and the team rips helmets from heads, giving Derek his first look at his candidates’ faces. He takes a good minute to note relevant information. Hair and eye color, height. Data he’ll need to give to Tommy if Derek decides to turn them. Ad he probably will. They suit his needs well enough. Six looks to know Jackson relatively well, since he’s talking to the guy without a single insult being tossed his way, and Stiles had recommended thirteen.

                He’s tempted to tell Stiles and Jackson to bring the boys along. On one hand, nothing draws attention and sets off creeper alarms like asking two teenage boys to get in a stranger’s car. On the other, Derek really doesn’t have time to wait.

                “What’s up?”

                “Numbers thirteen and six.”

                “Danny too, huh? Whatever you say, sourwolf. Could you at least pretend you’re happy to have a coupla options?”

                “Bring them with you and the others.”

                “What? You’re going to do it now? Like right there on the lacrosse field?”

                “No. First, I’m going to take you all to get fake I.D.s. Now bring them with you.” Derek hangs up. He doesn’t have to explain his orders and Stiles does have to follow them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that Isaac's number is supposed to be 14, but I really wanted him to have unlucky 13. So, now he does. Because this is fanfiction, and I can do that. Let me know what you think.


	11. Say "Werewolf"!

                Jackson, having heard the entire conversation—as opposed to just Stiles’ half—doesn’t give the little nerd the option of relaying Derek’s orders. Mostly because that would feel too much like taking orders from Stilinski. And that shit’s just not gonna happen.

                “Ay, yo! Danny,” Jackson grins, swooping in on his best friend. The grin is one hundred percent real too, because he loves Danny—strictly platonically—and he wants to share this with the guy who’s his brother in every way but blood.

                “Hey, Jacks.” Danny smiles a little when Jackson puts his arm around his shoulders. He knows the beginnings of a conspiracy when he sees one; Jackson isn’t usually so touchy-feely.

                “I’m going out to get a top notch I.D. You want in?” Jackson whispers conspiratorially against Danny’s ear, careful not to be overheard. The last thing he needs is for half the lacrosse team begging him to take them too. Something tells him Derek would not be happy to see a dozen teenage boys he’s not giving the Bite to following them around to wherever to they’re going. And Jackson doesn’t want to get his face mauled again. Especially since he’s just finished healing from the last time.

                “Yeah, man. Let me pack up my kit.” Danny grins and Jackson leaves him to it, shooting a superior smirk towards Stilinski and McCall who seem to be having difficulties convincing their target.

                Isaac is shaking his head ‘no’ pretty seriously, and Jackson, being a kind and helpful man, goes to fix the hold-up.

                “Look, I have to go home right after practice.” He’s saying with conviction and the slightest tremor of fear. “My dad…he’s kinda strict.”

                “Come with us.” Jackson coaxes with a wide, knowing smile. “And that won’t be a problem anymore.”

                Isaac pales a little at that. Because if there was ever anyone to know about his dirty laundry, well the neighbor kid was probably it. “I don’t see how.”

                And then Jackson takes a risk that just might get him mauled again. But, the way he figures it, Derek is going to Bite him, so Isaac is already going to know. And it’s not like Isaac has any friends to tell. His eyes flash, luminous blue, and Isaac takes a step back, frightened again. Derek’s going to have to work on that because no chance in hell this kid’s gonna be anything more than cannon fodder if he’s afraid of his own freaking shadow all the time. “Trust me. It won’t be a problem.”

                Isaac is silent and pale and Jackson doesn’t actually wait for him to put himself back together and respond in any way, shape, or form. He just puts a hand on his shoulder and semi-gently guides the kid outside. Scott, Stiles, and Danny—shooting Jackson a strange look when he sees the rest of his company—follow after him.

                Derek is waiting outside, lounging against the side of his car and looking every inch the drug dealer Jackson first thought he was. Seriously, he has “bad news” painted all over him. From the black combat boots on his feet to the black jeans, black v-neck, black leather jacket combo he’s wearing to the five o’clock shadow clinging to his jaw and the dark glasses hiding his eyes.

                “Miguel?” Danny says with a distinct air of confusion, and…what? Derek promptly turns what can only be a ferocious glare at Stiles.

                “Actually.” Stiles blurts, flushing red and looking generally flustered. “Kinda not my cousin. See, this is my friend Derek. Hale. Derek Hale. And I told you he was my cousin named Miguel because I didn’t want you to know I was harboring a fugitive from my dad. But he was innocent! He totally had nothing, or well, _very little_ to do with all the dead people!”

                “Stiles. Stop talking.” Derek orders and Stilinski shuts up. “Who’re your friends?”

                “Danny,” Jackson gestures to his bud who’s looking a bit worse for wear. “He’s cool.”

                “Isaac.” Scott says with the slightest growl in his voice. Apparently not down with the whole semi-kidnapping thing going on here. Pussy.

                “Excellent.” Derek smiles, and it’s just like the one he was wearing right before he _shot_ him. Jackson suppresses a shudder. “Divvy up however you like and follow me.”

                And then Derek is disappearing into his Camaro.

* * *

                This is kind of the weirdest day of Danny’s life. He’d been pretty sure nothing was ever going to top: holy shit, I think I’m _gay_. But this is pretty close. Because he’s sitting next to Jackson in the Porsche and they’re tailing Derek freaking Hale, who _isn’t_ Stiles’ cousin Miguel but a former _fugitive_ wanted for multiple _murders_. And Jackson is just sitting there, completely calm, and following him. No concern about this at all. About following a _suspected murderer_ to some as of yet undisclosed location out of town.

                Danny seriously regrets getting in the car. No I.D., no matter how good, is worth the chance that he might be dead in a few hours.

                “So…” He starts awkwardly, not really sure how to go about interrogating his best friend about his connection with a guy could, _maybe_ , be a serial killer. “How do you know Derek?”

                “He’s training me.”

                “Oh. Okay.” Yeah, that doesn’t sound _weird_ or anything. God, he hopes Jackson hasn’t gotten himself involved in some kind of freaky cult thing. That would so not be cool. “For what?”

                “I’ll tell you when your heart isn’t about to beat its way out of your chest.” Jackson smirks, and that’s embarrassing. Apparently, yes, everyone _can_ hear your heartbeat when it’s pounding in your ears. Good to know.

                Forty minutes of semi-terrified silence later, their little convoy reaches its destination. H&J Photography Studio. Well, alright. Maybe Mr. Illegal isn’t a creepy cultist-killer guy. Maybe he really is just helping them get some quality fakes. Danny was probably just being paranoid. After all, Stiles is the sheriff’s son, and he’d hidden Derek from his father; he wouldn’t do that if Derek was guilty, right?

                Unless Stiles is a part of said freaky cult and was protecting his “holy leader” or some strange-ass shit.

                But Jackson and Scott and Stiles aren’t acting like brainwashed, mindless drones. They aren’t acting any different than they always have, aside from the whole hanging around with each other and Derek thing. So there’s that. Danny takes a deep breath and gets out of the car. He’s being paranoid. That’s all. And now he’s going to stop being paranoid. It’s that simple.

                Scott, Isaac, and Stiles clamor out of the latter’s jeep. Isaac looks a little green around the gills, a little like he isn’t sure if he wants to be here. But that makes sense. The kid’s only fifteen, he’s probably never gone to get a fake I.D. before. First time nerves. Yep. He absolutely hasn’t been kidnapped by the same cult that suckered him into showing up too. See? _Not_ paranoid at all.

                “Seriously, Dan,” Jackson smiles, and it looks the same as it always has, “relax before you have a heart attack or something.”

                “Uh-huh.” Danny is ashamed of the squeak in his voice. “I’m good, dude. Totally.”          

                The door to the studio swings open and some guy with the general style of a surfer bum comes out, grinning wide. “Erik, you bastard!”

                “Tommy, my cousins.” Derek says without any kind of emotion. His face doesn’t change either. Seriously, boyfriend needs to get himself some expressions, stat….And that sounded _really_ gay. Even inside his own head. “Cousins, Tommy.”

                Danny’s pretty sure that he and Jackson could pass as blood relations. And maybe Stile, Isaac, and Derek. But Scott’s darker complexion doesn’t fit in with any of them. But Tommy doesn’t seem to care all that much. Which, hey, the guy sells fake I.D.s. What does he care who he’s selling them to?

                “Always a pleasure to meet more Hydes, Erik.” And Danny isn’t quite sure if the guy is messing up Derek’s name, or if he thinks it _is_ Erik. Probably the latter. Which is scary, because how do they know this isn’t some guy named Erik Hyde pretending to be Derek Hale? Not that it would do much on the crazy-killer scale, cause Danny has already awarded the older man a perfect score on that one.

                Dude is seriously creepy. Gorgeous bod notwithstanding.

                “You all set up in there?”

                “Of course. Only the best for Erik Hyde. Just need their pretty faces and personal details slapped into Gloria.”

                “Then let’s get this done. I have a delivery waiting at home.”

                “Hyde, party of six?” Tommy grins and gestures like the host at a lackluster restaurant, hanging on the door like an overgrown kid. “Right this way.”

* * *

                “You need yours touched up, Erik?” Tommy asks as he pokes around his equipment. “How do you feel about being a Sean? Or a Tyler? You have a Tyler’s face.”

                “I haven’t burned through Erik Hyde or Frank Dirge yet.”

                “You sure you don’t want to be a Tyler? I have a lovely Tyler Twist on hand.”

                “Not a fan of alliteration. Take care of the boys.” Derek growls, and Tommy doesn’t argue any more after that.

                “Fantastic! Who’s first?” Tommy wheels around to stare at them all, and Stiles has the distinctly uncomfortable feeling of being singled out. “You! Short hair, toffee eyes. You’re up.”

                “Me?” Stiles points to himself but there isn’t really another option. His semi-buzz is by far the shortest cut in the room.

                “Yes, yes, yes.” Tommy waves him over. “Stand there and smile like this is the DMV. Because, as far as the rest of the world is concerned, it is.”

                “Wait.” Derek interrupts before Tommy can take the picture. “You need the filter.”

                “You mean they’re _actually_ related to you?” Stiles has never heard a man sound so scandalized because he was told the truth.

                “He has the same eye condition. So do those two.” Derek says boredly, pointing to Scott and Jackson. And Stiles suddenly remembers mug shots with no clear pictures, a strange flash blotting out the face. Ohhhh…

                Everyone else looks a little confused about said “eye condition”. Including Scott and Jackson who apparently have it. But Stiles would probably be confused too if he hadn’t already seen the police department’s attempts at photographing a werewolf.

                Stiles pastes on the generic grin of the bored and annoyed. The camera flashes. The other guys take their turns, all putting up similar masks of tedious expectation. Even Isaac who hadn’t stopped looking vaguely nauseous since Jackson manhandled him out of the locker room.

                Throughout the process, Stiles starts inching towards Derek. Because he’s too antisocial to stand around with the rest of the group. He’s not really sure why he doesn’t just walk over there like a normal person, but he doesn’t. “Hey, hey, Derek?”

                “What, Stiles?” Derek doesn’t even look at him, too busy watching Tommy the photo-guy do his work.

                “Are you gonna Bite em? Cause I think you should tell them the details first. You know, the hunters and the war and the craziness that comes with the full moon. No one likes to be surprised by that kind of thing.”

                “I was planning on it. Now _go away_.”

                “Going. Now. Away. Like, over there.” Stiles agrees quickly, walking briskly back towards the guys.

                Tommy finishes taking his pictures and settles himself at his computer, getting oddly quiet. Mouthing words without any sound coming out, even to preternatural ears. And then, an explosion of motion. “Yes! I have it! Erik, come see!”

                Derek stalks over, peering at the screen. “Acceptable. Birth certificates and passports?” Okay then. So the fake I.D.s weren’t just a bribe to get Isaac and Danny to come. Okay. _That’s_ concerning. What the hell do they need _passports_ for?

                “Une momento, me amigo.” Tommy is a flurry of motion again. Printing and laminating and bundling all sorts of things together, and Stiles has never seen the process of assembling “Mission accomplished. Anything else you need?”

                “I said six spreads, didn’t I?”

                “You sure did. Where’s lucky number six?” Tommy spins around in his chair.

                “Scott!” Derek barks, startling every last one of the group about two feet in the air. “Come here.”

                Scott moseys on over, and Stiles trails after him. Because that’s kind of what he does. “Yeah, Derek?”

                “Give me your wallet.”

                “What?”

                “Give. Me. Your. Wallet.” Stiles has the oddest flashback of Derek telling him to take off his shirt with the exact same tone. Scott doesn’t bother putting up a fight, just sighs and hands it over. Derek leafs through it quickly, pulls out something—a photo?—and tosses it back. “Can you use this?”

                Tommy takes it. Yep, definitely a picture. “Can do, Erik.” He goes about doing his thing, scanning the photograph and doing all the other things forgers apparently do. “Pretty lady.” Tommy tosses out when he hands the pic back. Derek promptly returns it to Scott who looks highly offended, and Stiles sneaks a peek. Allison. Of course, Scott cares around a picture of the undying love of his life in his wallet. Because that’s what people who are sickeningly in love do.

                “That’ll do it, Tommy.”

                “I can seriously make you a Tyler. You _look_ like a Tyler.”

                “I’m _not_ a Tyler, Tommy. Let it go.”

                “Going. Going. Gone.” Tommy smiles again, shoving six folders into his hands. “Take your illicit paperwork and be gone, Erik. _If_ that _is_ your real name.”

                “You know it’s not.” Derek does his creepy smile again. And Stiles really needs to talk to him about that. Almighty Alpha werewolf he may be, but he seriously needs to branch out beyond angry and creepy.

                “Indeed I do, random sir who doesn’t trust his forger with his real name.” Tommy makes a shooing gesture that Stiles is half afraid is going to end with Derek breaking his fingers. “Buh-bye now.”

                “Cars. Now.” Derek demands, stalking out. And Stiles and the others follow. Three-fifths of them because he’s the Alpha, the other two because the first three are their rides.

                “Dude. He still has my I.D.” Danny complains to Jackson who pretty much ignores him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think.


	12. Make a Deal with the Devil

                So, it’s official. Derek Hale is the creepiest person on the planet. Who the hell lives in the burnt out husk of building where their entire family died?! Danny so did not sign up for this shit. He just wanted a good I.D. so he could drive up to a nice gay bar and meet a nice gay guy and have a nice gay time. Nowhere in that plan does it mention decrepit old houses where no one can hear him scream.

                And there’s Jackson, way too calm about all this and way too familiar with the isolation surrounding this place. Scott and Stiles too. They’re just chilling out, completely relaxed, and Danny has the really bad feeling that he was totally right about the killer cult thing and he’d really like to go home now.

                “Scott, Jackson, take Isaac out back. I set up a practice field. Run him through the drills.” Derek orders, and off Jackson and Scott—who, last Danny heard, couldn’t stand each other—go, thick as thieves in the night. Stiles starts to follow, but Derek grabs his shoulder. “Not you. You stay.”

                “What’s going on?” _Please don’t kill me. Stiles, please don’t let him kill me._ “Can I just have my I.D. and go?”

                “This was never about fake I.D.s.” And those words are going to haunt him for the rest of Danny’s life. All five seconds of it. “This is about helping Jackson.”

                Wait, what?

                “What do you mean?” Danny isn’t sure he really wants to know. This how the crazy cult leader always suckers in the _idiot_ who listens to him. He gets close to the people in said idiot’s life.

                “You’re best friends, right?” Derek looks at him, before turning to Stiles. “Stiles, when your best friend was in trouble, did you help him?”

                “Help him? I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve saved his life since he got into trouble….yours too for that matter. I am _seriously_ underappreciated.” Derek growls, literally growls and it’s quite possibly the single most terrifying sound Danny has ever heard. Stiles makes this little meeping sound. “Shutting up now.”

                “And you, Danny-boy? If Jackson, your best friend, were in trouble, you’d want to help right?”

                “Yeah. Of course.” But that doesn’t mean he’s joining evil-killer-cult. That means he’s grabbing Jackson and driving him far, far away from this wackjob ASAP.

                “Good. Because last month Jackson bit off a bit more than he could chew. We all did. My uncle pissed off the wrong people, and they’re coming to kill us.” Still so nonchalant. It’s seriously freaking Danny right the fuck out. _People_ have emotions. _Cultists_ have creepy-calm. “They’re coming for me and Scott and Stiles. And they’re coming for Jackson.”

                “Why?” And that is relevant information. If Jackson is about to have to run because Derek Hale brainwashed him, Danny is more than willing to do anything and everything to convince anyone and everyone that Jacks is not at fault. And then they can have Derek arrested and locked up far away from Jackson and these guys he’s also mind-scrubbed into obedience.

                “Because.” And then Derek’s face changes. His eyes burn bright red and his mouth contorts to reveal way too many fucking teeth, and Danny is just about to pee himself. “We’re werewolves.”

                “And Alpha Derek wants you!” Stiles declares, pointing at Danny like it’s a joke. Like Derek is going to break out into a huge, _human_ grin and say ‘gotcha!’

                He doesn’t.

                “Holy shit. Holy shit, holy shit, holy _shit_.” Danny doesn’t consider himself to a particularly ‘girly’ gay. He’s just a guy who happens to like guys. But he’s about to do some queer ass shit like faint or something, and, you know what, he doesn’t _care_. Because werewolves are _real_. And his _best_ _friend_ is one. And they, the _werewolves_ , want him to be one too. And if that isn’t an excuse for any and all kinds of behavior, Danny doesn’t know what the hell _is_.

                This is _so_ much worse than a crazy cult.

                “Breathe, Danny.” Stiles soothes, thankfully keeping his distance. Danny’s not so sure he could handle it if a werewolf, a fucking _werewolf_ , came near him right now. “Just breathe.”

                “Werewolves are _real_.”

                “Yep.”

                “Werewolves are real. And _Jackson_ is a werewolf.”

                “Yep.”

                “Jackson is a werewolf. And people want to kill werewolves, which Jackson is.”

                “Yep.”

                “People are coming to kill werewolves. And you want _me_ to be a werewolf, who people are coming to _kill_.”

                “Yep. That about covers everything Derek just said.”

                “And it’ll help Jackson. The _werewolf_.”

                “Dude. _Yes_.”

                And this is a lot of information to take in at once. And he’s probably not in the best decision making place right now. Because his mind? Blown. Wide fucking open. His decision making skills are long gone. They’ve left the country. They’re in _Cuernavaca_.

                “Do it.” Because Danny loves Jackson as if he were blood, and there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for him. So dust off the pen, prepare the inkwell; Danny is about to sell his soul.

                “Take off your shirt.” And Danny should be questioning that, but. Mind. Blown. He simply cannot process anything at all right now, so he’s just going to go with it.

                “It doesn’t hurt much. Or, well, it doesn’t hurt _long_ …” Stiles throws in helpfully, and Danny honestly has no idea what he’s talking about and he doesn’t really care. There’s not a whole hell of a lot he won’t do for Jackson, and if Jackson needs him to make a deal with the devil and become a werewolf, well…

                Danny’s always liked the moon.

                Derek lunges forward and latches his deformed jaw into his side. Danny considers screaming, but it really doesn’t hurt as bad as having an abnormally large set of teeth ripping into his side should. So he doesn’t scream. So, manly points back from the almost peeing and almost fainting earlier.

                Also, in related news, a _werewolf_ just _bit_ him.

                “Welcome to the Pack.” Derek says, all smug and self-satisfied, and Danny is seriously considering punching him in his freaky, half-wolf face. “Stiles, take Danny out back. There’s an emergency kit out there.”

                Stiles approaches him slowly and carefully. The way people walk towards wounded animals, which, okay, maybe Danny is right now. “Come on, Danny. Let’s go tell Jackson the good news.”

                “Oh, and, Stiles?” Derek adds. “Bring Isaac.”

                “Coming up, boss.” Stiles responds cheerily. Way too cheerfully.

                Oh, dear gods above and below, what the hell has he gotten himself into.

* * *

                Danny and Stiles come over and Danny is bleeding. Not a lot, but not a little either. And he has teeth marks carved into the skin of his side. Jackson lets out a whoop at the sight of him, rushing over and slapping his back and welcoming him. As to what he’s welcoming him to, well, Isaac hasn’t exactly been given all the details. Or, you know, any of them. Other than the facts that he’s been kinda kidnapped, Jackson can make his eyes glow blue, and everyone’s pretty happy something bit Danny, Isaac doesn’t know _anything_.

                It’s getting dark now, and Father is going to be so mad at him. He’s supposed to be at home. Cleaning the house and putting the diner he hasn’t made on the table. He’s supposed to be diligently doing his chores and his homework and praying fervently that just this once his dad won’t be mad.

                But he’s here instead. Doing what could arguably be called “goofing off”.

                Isaac sees the inside of the freezer in his future. His very, very near future.

                “Hey, Isaac! Derek wants to talk to you out front!”

                Well. That’s probably not good. What if whatever bit Danny is still out there? And who the hell is Derek Hale to be summon people? Taking them to get fake I.D.s and then dragging them up into his house—and that word is used with the loosest possible definition—in the middle of no-freaking-where. But, since it is Derek’s “house” in the middle of a forest where no one can hear him scream and he’d get lost for days trying to find his way home, Isaac is kind of inclined to go see what the guy wants.

                Stiles walks beside him, apparently unperturbed by the fact that something bit Danny not two minutes ago.

                “So, what’s he want?”

                “Oh, you know. Just a little chat.” Stiles shrugs with a distinct undercurrent of amusement.

                That’s not helpful. Because Stiles is totally in on whatever’s happening, and Isaac isn’t and he does not like this. At all.

                Derek is just standing there. It’d be lurking if there was anything for him to stand in the shadow of. He’s got that whole threatening, badass thing going for him. And that’s just great for him, but Isaac wants to know what he wants from him.

                “Hello, Isaac.” Derek greets, smiling a seriously creepy smile. He makes the Joker look _sweet_. “Tell me, what are you afraid of?”

                Wait. What?

                “Nothing.” Isaac sputters, reverting to the kid who shrinks in the presence of authority, even though Derek doesn’t have any power over him at all.

                “His dad, Derek. He’s scared of his dad.” Stiles blabs, and Isaac would be angry if he wasn’t trying to figure out how everyone in this twisted little group seems to know his secret.

                “Does he hit you, Isaac?” And he sounds almost…kind. Understanding. And Isaac doesn’t want this. Doesn’t want this stranger’s pity. He just wants the pain and fear to stop. He can wait out his remaining three years. His dad hasn’t killed him yet. Isaac can _survive_. And then he’ll run as far away as he can and never have to be the scared little boy locked in the freezer ever again. “What if I could promise you that he never would ever again.”

                “What are you talking about?” Isaac questions before his brain can stop it. He doesn’t think about how that’s tantamount to admitting the things his father does. And he doesn’t think about the Sheriff’s son standing about two feet to his left. He just wants an answer. If Derek can make it stop, really stop that way CPS in Michigan hadn’t, Isaac will do just about anything he wants.

                “I’m talking about me. Killing your father.”

                Those are not words that should be spoken with such nonchalance. Those are not words that Isaac should listen to with relief. Those are words with _consequences_.

                “You can’t lead in with murder, Derek!” Stiles complains, arms flailing about. “You’ll scare him. You should start with mentioning my dad’s the Sheriff or something.”

                “If he wanted the police involved, Stiles, they’d be involved.” Derek doesn’t look away from Isaac. There’s something in the way he’s looking at him that makes Isaac want to stand up a little straighter. “I can make it look like an accident, Isaac. And Stiles can convince his dad to let you stay with them, right, Stiles?”

                “Yeah. Probably. Dad’s a big softy. Except when it comes to his curly fries. He’s really adamant about keeping up his deadly affair with those. Which I understand, because curly fries? Made of awesome and—“ Derek growls, cutting off Stile’s ramble, and it’s a sound that washes away any doubts in Isaac’s head that this man can and will kill. The only question left is why.

                “Why?”

                “Well. It’s not entirely a favor, Isaac. I’m going to need something from you too.”

                And there’s the catch. Isaac had been expecting it, but still. To have hope, even for a second, and then watch it fall away is devastating. “I don’t have any money and I’m not fucking any of you.” That’s the line. That’s where Isaac just says no. He’s not willing to trade one abuser for another. Better the devil you know.

                Derek’s eyes widen and he blinks rapidly while Stiles shouts “Dude! So the wrong idea!”

                “That’s not what I want from you.” Derek states, sounding absolutely appalled. Isaac believes him, simply because this is the first time he’s heard Derek say something with any kind of emotion. “I want you to help me and my…friends…with a problem.”

                “What kind of problem?” It doesn’t matter. Isaac honestly doesn’t care. In his heart of hearts, he’s already made the decision. Derek Hale is going to kill his father. And Isaac is going to help him with whatever problem he happens to have. It’s a trade he is more than willing to make.

                Until Derek’s face moves. Not his expression. His actual _face_. The skin ripples like water, features distorting and realigning until the person staring at him doesn’t look human anymore. _Isn’t_ human any more. “I want you to join my pack of werewolves.”

                Isaac wasn’t expecting that. _Couldn’t_ have expected that. Who in their right mind considers werewolves a serious possibility?

                But.

                Isaac doesn’t care if werewolves are real. Doesn’t care if he’s making a deal with the devil. Because this devil, this werewolf, is offering him exacting what he wants.

                “Just to be clear, there is an army of werewolf hunters flooding the town with the sole intention of completely eradicating all of us from the face of the planet. You know, so you can make an informed decision.” Stiles throws out. Though whether the guy’s trying to talk Isaac out of it or trying to make the prospect of fighting a war sound appealing is anyone’s guess. Isaac, personally, doesn’t much care.

                An army of people might want to hurt him after he does this. But he can fight back. He doesn’t have to stand there and let them do it. Not like now. Not like with Dad.

                “And you’ll kill him.”

                “Painfully.” Derek promises, voice twisted and different.

                “Then I’ll do it.”

                “Shirt. Off.”

                And, since they’ve already established that this isn’t going to be a weird kiddie porn experience, Isaac does it. Derek’s teeth tear into his flesh, and Isaac feels the familiar slither of blood across his skin. It hurts. It hurts a lot. A small whimper of pain escapes his lips, but no more. Isaac is well versed in pain and silence.

                Derek pulls away, maw dripping with Isaac blood and smiles. “Welcome to the Pack.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think.


	13. Cry "Havoc!", Part I

                Stiles drops Scott off at his house and suddenly it’s just him and Isaac. And Stiles realizes he doesn’t really know anything about the kid. He can rattle off all of number thirteen’s lacrosse stats, but the boy beneath the player? Stiles has nothing. And he’s going to have to convince his dad that Isaac is a friend.

                He can’t use schoolwork as an excuse. They don’t share any classes; Isaac isn’t even in in Stiles’ _year_. So Isaac, the new werewolf in Stiles’ pack, is about to become Isaac, Stiles’ lacrosse bench-buddy.  That means Stiles should know some basic information about him.

                “So…” Dammit. Stiles can never think of what to say when he actually _needs_ to. “What’s your favorite movie?” There we go! A perfectly normal question that a pair of perfectly normal benchwarmers would talk about with each other.

                “I don’t really watch tv…” Isaac shrugs, looks away. “My dad doesn’t like noise.”

                “Uh-huh.” Well. That topic is out then. Quick, Stilinski, think of something else. Something quiet. “You read a lot? Cause that’s quiet, right? You could read without pissing him off?”

                “Yeah.” Soft smile, averted eyes. “I spend a lot of time at the library. School’s important to him, so he lets me go when my chores are done. I like it there.”

                “Something tells me it’s not for the books…” Stiles leads, but doesn’t actually ask the question. Isaac is an intrinsically private person. He’s used to keeping everything about himself to himself. In fact, before this morning, Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever seen the kid talk before. To, like, anyone. So if he doesn’t want to talk about whoever put that look on his face, well, Stiles isn’t going to push.

                “No. I like books.” Isaac denies quickly—too quickly—before shrinking in on himself again. “Everything always makes sense in books. Even the bad stuff. There’s always a _reason_. I like that…”

                And, geeze. Stiles just wants to hug the poor kid. He’s not going to, because Stiles read somewhere that victims of abuse usually have serious issues with random touching. And also because Stiles is driving and throwing his arms around Isaac right now would get the both of them killed, which would be of the bad.

                “So who’s your favorite author then?”

                “I like Rowling and Tolkien.”       

                “A fantasy man. Stiles approves.” Did he really just refer to himself in the third person? Yeah, he did. God. Why is he so terribly lame and awkward? “You know what we’re doing tonight?”

                “Giving me an alibi while Derek murders my dad?”

                “Nope! Well, I mean, yes. But _while_ we’re doing that, I’m going to introduce you to the glories of _Star Wars_.”

                “Okay.” His lack of enthusiasm would be criminal if he had any idea what Stiles was talking about. Since he doesn’t, he gets a pass. Just this once though. Because bitches don’t diss _Star Wars_ within Stiles’ hearing without getting an earful of why, exactly, it’s the greatest trilogy ever made. Four through six, not one through three. Though two wasn’t bad and Stiles actually liked three. But, one. Dear moon above, what _had_ George been smoking when he thought _Jar-Jar_ would be a good idea?

                Nevermind. Focus, Stiles, focus.

                He pulls into his driveway, half relieved to see his dad’s cruiser—what’s a better alibi than one collaborated by the Sheriff himself?—and half nervous—what if he can’t sell the story, what if his dad asks questions, what if, what if, what if—

                “Well, come on, bench-buddy. Let’s go order pizza and watch _Star Wars_ and do other perfectly normal teenaged things.” …God, Stiles hopes no one heard him say that. So. Lame. And. Awkward.

* * *

                They’re arming up and heading out. Exploratory expedition. Small hunting party. Handguns with regular bullets.

                A scouting mission. They want a feel for the pack. How many does it have, _who_ does it have, where is it. Necessary questions. Necessary evils.

                But they aren’t necessary at all. Chris only made them think they are.

                Fifty hunters, trained from infancy and armed to the teeth, against an orphan who’s barely reached adulthood and a love-sick teenage boy who used to date the daughter of the man who put an arrow through his arm. The word _overkill_ has just been redefined as “Christopher Argent’s reactions to life”.

                Chris considers going. He knows the terrain well, better than any of these new guys. But he’s a bit higher up now than he used to be. The leader of a small band leads by example; the leader of an army doesn’t risk himself until pawns have been put in play. And it’s strange to think of himself like that. A general. He’s always been a hunter, always held the reins of leadership. But he had always been a man first, another body willing to fight and die.

                And all of a sudden, he’s supposed to be more than that. Not just a soldier captaining a squadron. But a general and a tactician, someone whose life is risked last instead of first.

                He’s not going to go. He has to maintain the façade he’s forced himself into. He’ll send a few of his team, though. They know the area almost as well as he does. And they’ll report to him first, before the rest of the Clan leaders. Their loyalty is to him, to the man they’ve fought beside for years.

                Chris likes to keep a step ahead. The moment there’s something to know, he’s going to know about it. It only buys him a few minutes. But if something happens, if something goes wrong. If Chris has to make a move. If Allison has to run. If the façade is about to fall… Chris is going to need every extra second he can get.

                “Alex. Sam.” Chris summons and they amble into his office obediently. They don’t bother with any pretense of faux-military discipline. These are more than his soldiers. These are his _friends_. “I want you to head out with the scouts. They’ll need people who know the ground.”

                “Sure.” Alex shrugs.

                “Aye, Aye, el captain.” Sam grins and tosses up a sloppy salute, knowing he can get away with such foolishness only in the relative privacy of this room. They’ve known each other for years. The man had been there for Chris’s wedding, had stood beside him when Allison was born. If any man as the right to address Chris however he pleases, it’s Sam. But, in front of the rest of the men, he wouldn’t dare. He understands how much of being an effective leader is perception, and he wouldn’t jeopardize Chris’s standing by appearing disrespectful for even a _second_ where the other men could see him.

                They head out with the other, marching orders clear. “Do not engage if it can be avoided. This mission is purely recon. Gather the intel and get the hell out. Come back in one piece tonight.”

                It’s happening. It’s happening right now.

                This is how the war starts.

* * *

                Alone in the woods, Derek begins to strip. The air is cool against his skin and goosebumps erupt over his chest and arms the moment his shirt hits the ground. But he won’t be cold long. Deft fingers undo his belt buckle before shucking the rough denim of his jeans and the soft cotton of his boxers in a single motion.

                Glowing red eyes narrow at the moon, half full and surrounded by stars. And then the change begins. Bones slip and slide out of place, shift and realign. Muscle peels away and reattaches. Skin ripples like waves in the ocean, darkening to a bleak brown base. From that brown flesh bursts raven black fur, smooth and thick and warm.

                No longer recognizable as anything human, Derek digs his claws into the earth and runs. He covers the miles between his home and the small town with ease. A small yip of pleasure escapes his jaws. The freedom of the run. The anticipation of the hunt. The belonging of Pack. This is what Derek was made for. This is all he is.

                The scent of copper and mint is unmistakable, not yet tinged with Wolf, and Derek follows it with a low growl. Follows it to the place his newest Beta once called home but never will again if Derek has anything to do with it. And he does. He really, really does.

                The bulk of his massive lupine form smashes through the front door on the first try. Isaac’s father looks up, all shock and horror. His mouth opens, sudden intake of breath, prepares to scream.

                Derek slashes his throat before the sound can escape. The cut is deep, shredding the vocal chords and silencing the man. Blood spurts, thick jets of garnet splashing slick scarlet across the walls and pooling crimson over the floor. But he doesn’t die. Not yet. He has two minutes before he bleeds out.

                “This… _fear_ …” Derek grits out through a throat and lips not meant for human speech. “This is…how you…made...Isaac…feel… _every_ day.”

                Mr. Lahey’s eyes widen and his mouth moves, tries to force words from his ruined throat. But he dies as silently as his son had lived.

                The intrinsic need to protect, to avenge, his Pack sated, Derek begins to maul the body. Tears hunks of flesh from the bone, gnaws gaping gashes, devours the sweet meats of the human body. Then sets about destroying the house the way a rapid animal might in its furious, uncontrollable rage. Claws shred through the fabric of couches, shatter lamps, knock pictures from the walls. Destruction, pure and clean and wonderful.

                And then Derek is running into the night again, a howl of triumph ripping through the air and alerting the pack to his success. He’ll swim through the river on his way back to his house. Wash the blood from his body, both human and wolf. Make sure to bring no trace of this night’s murder home with him. Being a murder suspect gets really old, really fast. And Derek isn’t going to play that game again if he can avoid it.

* * *

                The sound of a wolf’s howl echoes throughout the town and Sheriff Robert Stilinski pauses mid-chew, the hair at the back of his neck rising to attention. “Been hearing that a lot recently. Migrating pack musta wandered into the area…”

                Stiles and his friend don’t seem to be paying much attention though, heads cocked to the side, listening carefully with the slightest of smiles on their faces. Rob blinks and the looks are gone, both boys just eating pizza like he had imagined the whole thing. Hell. Maybe he did.

                “Guess so. There haven’t been wolves in California for over fifty years.” Stiles throws in his random fact of the day.

                “So, Isaac…” Rob trails off. He doesn’t know how to talk with this kid; he doesn’t know a damned thing about him. Stiles had never so much as mentioned him in passing and now all of a sudden he’s sitting on their couch eating pepperoni pizza and watching Star Wars. And, honestly, Rob isn’t sure what to make of that.

                Stiles has always been a particular brand of odd. He’s never been a social butterfly. For the past ten years or so Stiles has invited over a grand total of two people: Danny, for homework, and Scott. And yet in the past two days, Rob feels like there’s been a revolving door in his house and flashing neon sign proclaiming “Welcome all!” First Derek freaking Hale, and now this kid.

                And Rob’s not sure if he should be happy that Stiles seems to be blossoming into a more sociable young man, or concerned about the strangeness of his new “friends”. The erratic behavior and secrecy that Stiles has been exhibiting for the last few months is kind of pushing the sheriff towards concern.

                “Yes, sir?” Isaac pulls his eyes from the screen, seeming to shrink before Rob’s eyes. He just folds into himself, unconsciously making himself smaller.

                “Er…how’s your pizza?” It’s the best he can do in the wake of that troubling personality quirk. Kids instinctively making themselves smaller targets is never a good sign.

                “Good, sir.” Isaac smiles tightly, and Rob can all but see the thought bubble above his head: is that the right answer?

                “Good. Good.” Robs smiles tightly because his cop-sense is going off, and he doesn’t like what it’s telling him. “Stiles, can I borrow you for a sec?”

                “But this is the good part!” Stiles protests, still riveted to the screen where Vader prepares to reveal Luke’s parentage.

                “Now, Stiles.” He insists. He has _questions_ , and he’d much rather have _answers_.

                “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” The obligatory complaint unspoken, but understood, between them. Rob walks into the kitchen, Stiles trailing behind him somewhat reluctantly. “What’s up, Dad?”

                “Tell me about your new friend.”

                “Isaac? We’re lacrosse bench buddies.” Stiles smiles. But there’s that look in his eyes again. The one that Rob hadn’t seen more than once or twice a year until recently. There’s something Stiles’ isn’t telling him.

                “Uh-huh. How come I’m just now hearing about him?”

                “Scheduling conflicts?” Stiles asks, he doesn’t tell. But Rob can see the exact moment when Stiles decides to run with that plan. “See, his dad’s like super strict. So Isaac usually goes right home or to the library after practice. But today he had some extra time. Thus, pizza and _Star Wars_.”

                Rob bites his instinct to call Stiles’ lie. It hurts. That Stiles doesn’t trust him with this, whatever this is. There was a time when there was nothing Stiles wouldn’t tell him. What happened between then and now that changed his son so much without changing him at all?

                “You sure?” One last try. He wants Stiles to trust him, to believe that there isn’t a thing in the whole world that could make Rob love him any less. “You know you can tell me anything.”

                “I’m sure.” But Stiles doesn’t sound sure. He sounds like he has so often these past few months. The _I’m about to lie, but I don’t really want to_ voice.

                “Alright, son.” Rob forces another tight smile. Doesn’t know how to respond to the shifts in his and Stiles’ relationship. Doesn’t want to push and make it worse. Wishes his wife was here to tell him what to do. “Alright.”

                Before Rob can say anything else, though _what_ he has no idea, his phone goes off. “Sheriff Stilinski.”

                “Hey, Sheriff. We got another animal attack.”

                Oh fucking hell…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think.


	14. Cry "Havoc!", Part II

                Isaac rides to the scene of his father’s grisly murder in the back of the Sheriff’s cruiser. Feelings of dread and delight are warring violently inside him. His dad’s dead. Excitement. His dad’s dead. Fear.

                What if they figure out that it was Derek? What if they realize Isaac asked him to do it? What if Stiles can’t convince his dad to take him? What if he gets thrown into the system? What if he gets thrown in _jail_?

                “It’s okay.” Stiles smiles just the slightest bit, and Isaac wants desperately to believe him. But he’s been force-fed false promises all his life, and he doesn’t think he’s capable of faith anymore.

                There’s yellow police tape cordoning off his yard and house. Red and blue flashing lights. Policemen standing around, keeping the neighbors out. The door swings on its hinges in the breeze, cracked and broken. Lights inside flicker and shake.

                And this is suddenly very, very real. Derek’s kept his promise.

                 And his dad is _dead_.

                Elation.

                Sorrow.

                Confusion.

                His _dad’s_ dead.

                The coroner comes out of the house, carting the ominous black body bag. The one that Isaac knows his father is in. “Is…is that him?”

                “Yeah, son.” The sheriff says, all morose and regretful. Sorry for his lose. Because he doesn’t understand.

                “Can I see him?” He doesn’t know why he asked that. He knows what in there. He knows that it’s just a body. It isn’t his dad anymore. It’s just…a body.

                “I’m sorry. But we need to look for evidence first.”

                “Oh. Right.” Isaac isn’t sure why he feels bad. The man had beat him for years; he _deserved_ to die. Isaac deserves to never have to see him again. But…he was still his dad. And he’s still dead. And this all feels wrong and Isaac wishes it didn’t.

                This should feel like victory. This is Isaac’s triumph over the man who locked him up in an old freezer. This is his achievement and his father’s failure. This is everything Isaac’s ever wanted.

                It shouldn’t feel like _loss_.

                But it does.

                Isaac doesn’t realize he’s crying until a tear lands on his hand. From there, it’s unstoppable. A huge snowball. Gasping, wet sobs wrack through his whole body; turn him into a quivering mess in the backseat. His arms come around himself, hold his shaking body tightly with trembling hands.

                And then there’s a different set of arms around him. A voice whispering words that Isaac can’t even begin to comprehend right now. But the sound is soothing. And he buries his face into the chest, trying to lose his pain in the warmth and comfort offered.

* * *

                A body. Mauled. “Animal attack”. Right. Because wild animals frequently break into people’s houses, kill, and then vanish without a trace.

                What the hell was Derek thinking?

                Chris doesn’t know what’s brought on the sudden and suicidal urge to call attention to himself with a veritable army in town, but he hates the younger man for it. Because the sooner the fighting starts, the less time Chris has with Allison before something inevitably goes horribly wrong. When the war really and truly starts, he’s going to lose her. And expediting that particular series of events hasn’t done Derek any favors in Chris’s books.

                The rest of the clans are abuzz with activity. With smooth features and steady hands, they’re preparing for war in earnest now. No pretense of waiting. No hesitation at all. Just quick, efficient movements and dark smiles.

                “Let’s kill us some Wolves.” Chris hears. Often. Different people in different places at different times. Under their breath, cautious about being thought too enthusiastic, too eager, and being kept from the battlefield as a result. But Chris hears them, makes note of them inside his head. Makes sure to remember. These are not men of honor, men of the Code; they do not need the Council’s approval to disband it, merely its ignorance.

                He will not fight beside them. Will not risk his life for theirs, doesn’t trust them to risk theirs for his.

                Because sometimes, and Chris can admit it if only within the absolute security of his own mind, those kind of men turn out to be even bigger monsters than then creatures they hunt.

                Allison is hiding in her room, and Chris is glad. He couldn’t even pretend to hide what was happening, not with over twenty different men preparing their weapons and talking strategy. Not that Chris wants to hide it from her; he’d always hoped to bring her into the family business when she was older. But he wants to hide _her_ from _it_. Keep her out of sight, out of mind. Keep her _safe_.

                All it takes is one wrong move, one question, one word. And it could all be over. Just like that.   And Derek fucking Hale had stood next to the fires of war, pouring gasoline on the flames. Antagonizing them. Killing a civilian, someone with no connection to this fight. Pointless murder. Hell, maybe Chris was wrong, sentimental, naïve. Maybe Derek really is just like his uncle.

                But…

                Maybe not. Chris will never know. And it hardly matters now. The decisions have long since been made. Their courses are set and there’s no changing them now. They’re going to collide. Violently. And there will be blood and death and chaos.

                And it will be Hell, because war always is.

* * *

                Scott has mixed feelings when he hears Derek’s howl. Half of him, the loyal wolf obedient to its alpha part, is glad. Glad that Derek/Stiles/Jackson found Isaac and could help him and make him Pack. The other half, the still human and scared part, is angry. Because, yes, Derek had saved Isaac—in a matter of speaking—but he had done it in exchange for irrevocably changing his life.

                Once you’re Pack, you’re never _not_ Pack. Isaac will be beholden to Derek until the day that one of them dies.

                And they could have helped him another way. Stiles’ dad is the Sheriff. One conversation and Isaac’s dad would have been unable to hurt him ever again. But. That’s not what happened. Instead, Derek had manipulated Isaac with promises of murder and power. And the part of him that isn’t fanatically loyal to the older man is not down with that plan.

                And, Jesus.

                Derek _killed_ a man tonight.

                He deserved it. No one should hurt their family. A father shouldn’t raise a hand against his son in anger and violence. A son shouldn’t be terrified of the man who has absolute power over his life, shouldn’t wish to see him dead. But…but…but…

                _Derek_ killed him.

                Despite the fact that the hunters are all in town, looking to forcibly introduce their pack to extinction. Despite the fact that Mr. Lahey is human. Despite _everything_. Derek had killed a man and drawn attention to their pack.

                But maybe that makes sense too. Vengeance is important to Pack. It had driven Peter insane. It had pushed Derek to slash his uncle’s throat. And Scott can see it demanding that Derek end the life of the man who had so tortured Isaac.

                There’s no loyalty like Pack loyalty.

                Hell, Scott doesn’t even want to be part of Derek’s pack, and he can’t help but obey. Doesn’t even _mind_ obeying because it makes his Wolf really fucking happy. And can he just take a moment and point out that the whole personality schism thing going on? _Not cool_. He had really hoped that would go away after Peter died.

                But the point is that Isaac has traded one kind of powerless for another.  And Scott’s not okay with that. He just wants to call Allison and talk to her about it. Get an opinion without the bias of Derek’s Pack bond. But then, even if he could call Allison, he’s not sure he could talk about it. How does he explain it to her? The undeniable urge to follow, to obey. The way it makes Scott feel happy and complete when the pack is near. When the pack is _whole_. So much so that he doesn’t mind that Derek has an incredible measure of control over him now, can take away his choices. Even if he doesn’t use it like that.

                How does he make her understand that the Wolf, it isn’t _him_. But it could be. It _is_. Sometimes. It’s all the things about him that he’d never let himself touch. All want and need and crave, anger and fealty and the certain knowledge that without Pack there is _nothing_. That Pack is _everything_.

                And what he wants and what the Wolf wants, they’re not the same.

                Except that they are.

                How does he describe the war within him, the conflict that even he doesn’t fully understand himself?

* * *

                Allison hears the words “animal attack”, and she knows what it means. Someone, somewhere, has just become the first casualty in this unseen war. It wasn’t a Hunter, she knows that. The hunting party that had left earlier in the night returned with every man that had left. And a Wolf wouldn’t have died from an “animal attack”. Just a bullet in the head.

                She hopes Scott wasn’t involved. She knows that he won’t be able to keep his hands clean for long, but she wants him to be able to put it off for as long as possible. He has a gentle soul, and she doesn’t want him to have to stain his soul with murder yet, however just. Scot isn’t a killer, and Allison doesn’t want him to have to become one any sooner than absolutely necessary.

                She loves his innocence. Looking back at it all now, she realizes it was one of the things that had first drawn her to him. The feeling that he was somehow, someway _different_ than her family. And not just because, turns out, he enjoys howling at the full moon. Because her family is composed of people who live and fight and die killing other people. And maybe they’re dangerous, maybe they deserve it. But who the hell are the Argents to play judge, jury, and executioner?

                Scott is innocent of that. Has always chosen to try and be more than his curse, his Bite. He doesn’t want to kill, hates that he might have to.

                And Allison loves him for that.  Loves him enough to kill in his name, so he doesn’t have to.

                *Beep*Beep*

                There’s a text from an unknown number on her phone, and Allison deflates a little. For a moment, just a moment, she had thought it might have been Scott. But, of course, it wasn’t. Because they’re not supposed to be talking in any way that can be found out, traced, discovered. Her father had threatened to kill him if he came near again before the war, God knows what he’d do now.

                _This’s Danny_ ~~Unknown

                Oh. Danny. That’s…nice. Kind of unexpected, but nice. Danny is Jackson’s friend, and he sits with her and Lydia and the other first line lacrosse players—minus Scott—but they’ve never really talked much. In fact…

                _How did you get my number?_ ~~Allison

                _I’m good w/ computers…jk, I asked Jackson~~_ Danny

                Well. That makes sense. Allison wants to smack herself for being paranoid, then she remembers that she’s in a warzone and that paranoid is probably going to keep her and her friends alive.

                _kk. :) What’s up?_ ~~Allison

                She’s not going to take any risks; she won’t say anything she shouldn’t just because this is _supposed_ to be a friend. It’s a text message, just because he says he’s Danny doesn’t mean it actually is. Those days of naïve trust are long gone as far as Allison is concerned.

                Instead of answering, Danny decides to call. Which, on the plus side, means it really is him.

                “Hey.”

                “Hey, Allison.”

                There’s awkward silence for a few seconds. Allison doesn’t know Danny that well, doesn’t have the faintest idea what to say. And Danny apparently doesn’t either, seeing as he’s saying just as much as she is.

                “Oh. Jeeze,” Allison hears Jackson. Distant at first, then clearer, “It’s, like, one sentence, Dan. _One_. You’re so useless.”

                “Bite me, Whittemore.” Is Danny’s cheerful reply.

                “Yeah, anyways, Allison?” Jackson again. He must have taken Danny’s phone. “Derek told us to drop you an FYI. So this is it: Stiles, Danny, and some kid from the lacrosse team are werewolves now. Oh, and Derek’s just killed my neighbor because he was beating said kid up all the time. There? See? Easy.”

                “Sorry about him. Can’t take him anywhere.” Danny sighs dramatically.

                But Allison isn’t listening. Stiles and Danny are werewolves. And someone else. More wolves. More soldiers to fight, and kill, and die. Allison isn’t sure how she feels about that. Understands it. Can see why Derek did it. But…

                Is making more werewolves really going to do anything but further antagonize the hunters?  And killing for one? Yeah, that’s definitely pissed them all off.

                “Allison? You okay?”

                Surprisingly, yes. She thinks maybe she shouldn’t be.

                “See! I told you to be delicate!”

                “Shut it!”

                But she _is_. Because—and hadn’t she just been telling herself this?—this is a _war_. And wars need soldiers. Pissinf off the other Argents or not, they were already going to be hunted, to be killed. Trying to pacify them wasn’t going to help, wouldn’t save them.

                “I’m fine.” Allison makes an effort to sit up straight, to think about this with cold logic. After all, she’s a soldier too. Even if she didn’t know it for the longest time. “Just surprised, I guess.”

                “We’ll see you tomorrow, right? I mean McCall is the only one on your family’s shitlist right now?”

                “Yeah, Jackson. You can use me to distract _your_ girlfriend while you have clandestine meetings with _my_ boyfriend.”

                Danny is sniggering in the background and Allison hears a pretty distinct _thwap_ sound she can only assume is Jackson punching his shoulder. “Ha ha. You’re hysterical. Bye.”

                Jackson hangs up after that. Allison smiles because that bordered on a normal conversation—you know, _after_ the part about werewolves and murder—and she could use a little more normal in her life. And not just any normal, moved to a new town where no one knows that monsters are real. No, this kind of normal. Real normal. With her real _friends_ , the werewolves.

                Her _pack_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think.


	15. Let Slip the Dogs of War, Part I

                The opening salvo of the war, the first real confrontation between Hunter and Werewolf, happens in broad daylight for everyone to see. Chris Argent is dropping Allison off at school when he catches sight of the Pack. And he knows that’s exactly what it is, too. Scott, his little buddy, and some new kid with dark hair and dark eyes; the son of the man mauled last night. That’s how Chris knows. Derek had made an orphan to expand his pack.

                And that’s what pushes Chris over the edge. Drives him to recklessness. His doubts are gone. They are not innocent. Allison’s love is not enough. They’re all killers, just like Peter. This war is justified. And suddenly he’s getting out of his car and storming towards them. And Scott isn’t the one he wants, isn’t the monster that had killed last night. But he’s a Beta. He is a part of this. And he’s in love with Allison.

                And that’s _enough_.

                His hands snap out, knot into the cotton of Scott’s shirt, twist and heave. Toss the boy to the ground. He cries out, complacent in the belief that Chris wouldn’t do anything in front of witnesses. But Chris has thought of that. He can make this seem like over-protective dad stuff instead of outraged hunter business.

                Chris leans over him, looks into eyes flickering between brown and gold, and throws a heavy handed punch. Hears the echoing sound of flesh on flesh, hard on soft, fist on face. Feels the familiar crunch of cartilage beneath his fist. Knows the nose is broken, however briefly. Another punch, before Stiles and the new guy yank him away. His fists are bloody.

                Allison charges through the gathering crowd. Gathers Scott’s head into her lap. Runs her fingers through his hair. Glares at him like he’s the monster in this equation.

                “You’re _animals_. And we’re going to _slaughter_ you all. Like animals.” Barely a whisper, but he knows Scott can hear. The other two too. Sharpened sense and all that bullshit. Then louder, words meant for public consumption. “You stay the hell away from my daughter, McCall! I damn well _mean_ it!” He does too, even if that isn’t the point of this conflict. Because Scott’s allegiance is to a man who kills now, and Chris cannot excuse his otherness anymore. Allison may love him, he may love her. But it is not enough to save him now.

                Maybe it never was.

                He jerks his arms out of the werewolves’ hands, grabs Allison by the arm. Pulls her up, drags her away from the poisonous presences of the werewolves who have turned her against him. She’s twisting and tugging her arm, trying to escape his hold. But he’s a hunter, and a damn good one; his grip will not falter. He takes her right up to the doors of the school, all but shoves her through it. This is all that he can do. He doesn’t _own_ her, knows he can’t control her. Her mind is made up, he has just stepped firmly into “enemy” in her personal opinion. And he can’t do anything about it now.

                They’re all just lucky he didn’t have his gun, or he might have shot all three of them directly between the eyes and been done with it. He could tell the truth, pretend to be insane, spend the rest of his days in a nice mental facility somewhere. Finally stop hunting, stop being hunted. Just _stop_.

                But he doesn’t have his gun. And Scott McCall and his pack still breathe. For now.

* * *

                Oh. Oh shit. This is so very, very messed up. Chris Argent, Allison’s freaking dad, just beat Scott up. In front of, like, a hundred people. Isaac is next to him is freaking the fuck out, and Stiles is right there with him. Because what. The. _Hell_.

                Isn’t the whole “werewolf/hunter” thing supposed to be secret? Even if the Code has been thrown out the window, shouldn’t some rules still apply? Such as _not_ beating up under-aged werewolves? Maybe? No? Well, okay then. They’re all going to die. _Fantastic_.

                “I, I should call my dad.”

                “What? No!”

                “He beat you up! In front of a whole bunch of people, Scott! That is the sort of thing police handle!”

                “Not when there are werewolves involved!”

                “No one needs to know that! Just that Allison’s dad punched you in the face!”

                “And I didn’t bruise because?”

                “You don’t bruise easy; you don’t have to bruise. Witnesses! You have like a shit ton of ‘em.”

                “I’m not having Allison’s dad _arrested_ , Stiles!” Scott shouts, eyes flashing golden before he deflates. “Jesus.”

                “Alright. Fine. But he’s gonna find out. And then you won’t be the one deciding anything. It’ll be up to your mom.”

                “Whatever.” Scott shakes his head, and stalks off. Probably to make long-distance love via eye-sex with Allison.

                “I, I wasn’t expecting that…” Isaac says so quietly Stiles wouldn’t have heard if it weren’t for the supernatural hearing. And, dammit. The kid’s fucking _fragile_ right now. He’s been beaten and broken, is trying to come to terms with his new Wolfy-ness, and, oh yeah, he had his father _murdered_ last night. Stiles is surprised he managed to get up and go to school at all; no one would have blamed him for missing a few days. He really didn’t need Chris fucking Argent popping up and adding in more madness.

                “We weren’t either. Or he wouldn’t gotten anywhere near any of us.” Stiles tries to placate. “Derek’s been training us. Evasiveness was kinda lesson one. And teamwork.”

                Isaac seems to take the absolute smallest measure of comfort in that. Stiles’ll take it. He’ll take any victory at this point. Because he’s not sure if what happened goes in the “loss” column or not. Yeah, Chris beat the snot out of Scott. But he also broke a few laws doing it, and might have to wait out the war from inside a jail cell. And, you know, _werewolves_ ; they can take a beating and be perfectly fine in just a few minutes. So Chris has risked a whole hell of a lot and accomplished nothing but further pissing of the pack of supernatural creatures he’s started a war with. Not the best opening move.

                That decided, Stiles moves the incident firmly into the “win” column.

                “Come on, Isaac.” Stiles smiles, because that’s all he can do. They’re here now, might as well actually go to class. His dad would understand if Isaac decided he couldn’t do it, needed to bail out. Would probably even be okay with Stiles ditching with him. But, what would they do then? Go back to his house and anxiously await Derek’s lessons?

                And besides. Scott, Jackson, and Danny are here. Strength in numbers. Teamwork was lesson 1B. He’s not going to abandon the rest of the pack unless Isaac legit needs out. And then he’ll go with him to Derek’s. Strength in numbers. No one should ever be _alone_. One Wolf is so much easier to kill than two, or three. And Stiles is Pack now—or maybe he was always Pack but now he’s Wolf, doesn’t matter—and he’s never going to leave his pack open to attack.

                If Scott or Derek or Isaac or Danny or even fucking _Jackson_ died because Stiles wasn’t there when he should have been, he’d never forgive himself.

* * *

                Allison is freaking out a little. Wondering if maybe she should make use of the bag she’s had packed for what seems like forever but has really only been a few days. A few days, and her world is already starting to fall apart.

                But she can’t go just yet. Or, rather, shouldn’t. Because she’s not at risk right now, and she can still play double agent for the pack, for Scott. And as long as she can, as long as she’s safe in her own home, she needs to stay and learn what she can. Because it won’t be safe for very long. Sooner or later her family is going to do something so bad that Allison won’t be able to pretend. She won’t be able to smile and bite her tongue or they’ll catch her feeding the pack information, and then they’ll all know whose side she’s on.

                But not yet. Not yet. There is still more she can do. And she’ll do it. She’ll do everything under the sun and moon and stars to help keep Scott and his pack safe.

                Not yet.

                But her hands are shaking. A little. Not much. Not enough for anyone to notice. That…that was Aunt Kate’s madness in her father’s eyes. More than the clinical detachment from before, the stony stare of _just doing what is **necessary**_. Rage and hatred and nothing else. And, gods above and below, that scares her. Because her father has always been tightly in control. Like the string of her bow, pulled taut with just enough give for the lethal snap.

                This is different. This is wrong and bad and very not good, and Allison wishes things would just stop. Stop escalating because she’s seventeen and this shouldn’t be her life. The fear that her father would murder her boyfriend should be abstract and unwarranted, not a carefully avoided fact. She should say “my dad will kill you if…” and then laugh a little because it’s an exaggeration if not quite a joke. But this is neither and it’s not o-fucking-kay.

                Scott and Stiles and Isaac—and he must be Wolf now, or about to be Wolf, the way Scott and Stiles are sticking next to him—trail in, and she realizes that she’s been standing still for too long. She has to keep moving, keep going. And do everything she can to avoid looking at Scott right now because if she looks into his eyes and sees those soft, puppy eyes showering her with love and concern and compassion, Allison is going to _break_.

                So she turns on her heel, doesn’t stick around for the slightest comforting touch she knows he’d try to give. Just the slightest because that’s all they can have before she crosses over enemy lines to get back home. Home to Scott.

* * *

                It’s pretty early when Derek gets the text. He’s sitting in the remains of what used to be the Beacon Hills rails station, sorting through the supplies again. Setting them up properly: three set of fatigues, one set of body armor—and he should have given that to the pack yesterday after doling out the Bite, but he was stupid, and he didn’t think—, one pair of boots, one pistol, eight grenades and eight smoke bombs on two neat chest straps. Derek had had to go into town, six towns over, last night after the cubs had gone home to pick them up.

                And there are more boxes; he’d raided amazon.com for all sorts of training dummies, standing and grappling; punching bags, heavy and speed; weights, free and barred; more jump ropes than an all-girls elementary school; and all sorts of other miscellaneous objects one might need to open a small gym, or train a pack of adolescent werewolves. He’d paid a torso, an arm, and both legs in overnight shipping charges, but it’s more than worth it if it means keeping his Pack alive.

                He even rewired the tunnel with electricity in the early hours of dawn so that the refrigerator he’d ordered from Sears would be able to be put to use immediately upon delivery. His pack is going to need basic things to be available to them during training. Things like cool water and healthy snacks, and those things typically require a nice, cold place for storage. Thus, fridge.

                The point is, he’s busy. He has a lot of shit to put together before the pack comes over, a lot of plans that need to be made that he hasn’t been able to even start working on yet, and that last thing he needs is a distraction. But he’s an Alpha now, and if his pack needs something from him he needs to know. If it’s stupid he can always make the impudent pup—Stiles, it would have to be Stiles because Scott and Jackson don’t like him enough to bother him for anything other than pack matters and Isaac and Danny are still too new to be anything other than frightened and slightly awed by him—run extra laps or the werewolf equivalent to a drill sergeant making a cadet give him fifty….he’ll think of something.

                _Uh…Chris Argent just beat Scott’s face like an uncooperative piñata. He’s all healed up and everything, just thought you’d like the FYI_ ~ ~Stiles

                Derek’s eyes flash crimson, and for one second he’s about to go on a bloody rampage to put Peter’s to shame. Some stupid, arrogant Hunter had laid hands on his Pack. Some stupid, arrogant Hunter was going to die. This is a basic fact of life. As immutable as two plus two equaling four. Cause and effect. Mess with one, prepare for the whole damn pack. Strike a Beta, get struck down by the Alpha.

                And then Derek remembers himself. He can’t just go running into town and ripping out throats. He’d be shot. Dead. And then there would be no one to protect his pack. And he always knew this was going to happen. That the Argents would eventually attack and, without the anonymity that had protected Scott before, his pack would be targeted just as much as he was.

                God _dammit_!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think.


	16. Growl

                Stiles—and Isaac who has all but surgically attached himself to Stiles’ side since pizza and _Star Wars_ —corners Allison at lunch. Scott, today more than ever, isn’t allowed to be anywhere near her where there are people who could see, but he’s hovering anxiously across the cafeteria. Stiles can practically see his ears perk up intently with the focus his directing on the object of his affections.

                “Tell her I love her.” Scott whispers a low, near silent sound that Stiles can totally hear now—because wolf senses are awesome, even on the eve of war—and Stiles can smell his desperation and love and want and it’s kind of _really_ gross.

                Stiles lets loose a delicate shudder, and Isaac twitches a little beside him. “Scott says he loves you.”

                Allison’s eyes go all soft and doe-like. The transformation from hunter/double-agent-for-werewolves to just-a-girl-in-love is instant and Stiles gets a bit of mental whiplash. “Love you too.”

                “Good. Now that everybody loves everyone else,” Stiles jumps in to interrupt before this can turn into another one of Scott and Allison’s epic gushfests of epic love of epicness. Because just about every conversation they have turns into one of those, and Stiles loves Scott like a brother but he is not being his bro’s voice right now. There is important shit going down right, and it takes priority. He pulls out his chemistry notebook, which he now plans to use for something that he actually needs to know. “Allison, what the hell happened this morning?”

                And just-a-girl-in-love disappears behind the hard gaze of a warrior again. “No idea. That was stupid. Just _stupid_.”

                “Let me rephrase: does the pack need to be worried that going outside is going to get them waylaid by hunters?”

                “I doubt it. My dad’s never been arrested or anything, you know for attacking a Wolf while he looked human. Christ, he works for the _cops_ ; he supplies them. Would your dad buy from someone with a rap-sheet?”

                “No. Probably not. So…isolated incident. Good, good. Except it means your dad—the only hunter we, and by ‘we’ I absolutely mean Derek and Scott to a much lesser extent, have any experience with—has just completely changed his M.O. and we—this ‘we’ includes all of us—have no clue what he’s going to do next. Well. That’s…not encouraging.” Stiles frowns, makes a note of Chris’ deviation from normal; clearly this war has thrown the hunter off his game. It’s _personal_ this time, and it’s made Chris unpredictable. “I’mma need the basic details we’ve been ignoring—well. Not _ignoring_ , just pushing back while we did other stuff—like how many hunters there are, what kind of weapons they use, how many of said weapons they have, modes of transportation, stuff like that.”

                “Fifty or so, but I’m not entirely sure there aren’t more coming. I got a ‘these people are in charge’ vibe off a lot of them.”

                “Right.” Stiles jots down the number and Allison’s suspicion quickly. “Anyone especially in charge-y?”

                “My dad. My mom. Grandpa Gerard.”

                “Yep. Because Scott couldn’t fall in love with any old werewolf hunter’s daughter; he really had to go the extra mile and piss off the head werewolf hunting family. –I hate you, bro. So much—What else?”

                “Guns, mostly. More than I could hope to count without someone noticing and wondering why, exactly, I’m paying so much attention to munitions. I saw a handful of crossbows, a few longbows. But crossbows are especially easy to hide. I have mine right now, and no one can tell.”

                “Uh-huh…Wait! What?” Stiles stares at Allison, wide eyes and gaping jaw. It’s not an attractive look for him, he knows, but he just can’t seem to keep it off his face. Not with friends like these, at least.

                “Which part did you miss?”

                “You brought your bow to _school_? That’s a _felony_!” Stiles hisses. Because. It. _Is_. And he may be a werewolf about to fight a supernatural war with a bunch of werewolf hunters, but he’s still the sheriff’s kid.

                “You and the rest of the Wolves _are_ your weapons. I, however, still need to lug mine around. I’m not walking around a warzone unarmed. That’s a good way to get dead.”

                “They’re your family! They don’t actually want to kill you.”

                “Yet.” The calm certainty of that one word causes goosebumps to erupt all over Stiles’ skin and he feels Isaac shiver.

                “Jesus. I just…I…” Scott stammers uselessly. Stiles see him—out of the corner of his eye—start to come closer, to do something. Anything. “Do something?” He whimpers when he remembers that he can’t. Not without bringing about Allison’s ominous, if probably accurate, prediction a lot faster than anyone wants to see.

                Stiles _is_ about to do something. He’s not sure what, but something, when Isaac—who had spent the last fifteen minutes sitting there mutely and staring at his hands with rapt attention—reaches out to wrap his hands around Allison’s. And. Whoa. And aww. Isaac is branching out; he’s making friends! Stiles feels a perturbingly paternal pang of pride.

                Allison stares at him. Isaac stares back. There’s this mutual, intense searching; eyes scrambling over every line and curve of each other’s faces. And then, like magic, small and slightly shy smiles from both of them. Isaac takes his hands back, returns to studying them, small smile intact. Allison steals Stiles’ abandoned notes, smile firmly in place while she adds her own details.

                A low growl interrupts Stiles feelings. Because he was totally having feelings there. Weird, the family is starting to really get along feelings. And Scott is totally ruining that nice mellow fluffiness with his jealous-possessiveness. Don’t get the man wrong, Stiles—or, well, the wolf in Stiles. No one ever really bothered to tell him there was a thin veil of foreign consciousness that comes with the Bite, but whatever—Stiles totally gets it. You just don’t mess around with a werewolf’s special person. Especially not within Pack. It’s, like, ultimate betrayal. It simply _isn’t_ _done_. But Stiles also knows that Isaac was in no way making a play for Allison. And if Stiles knows it, shouldn’t Scott?

                But the point is, Scott starts growling and Isaac starts growling back, and sweet Jesus in a sombrero, this school cannot survive anymore wolf v. wolf antics. And, dude, they’re supposed to be Pack. They’re all on the same team, and Stile would really love it if he could just worry about the Argents killing all his friends without said friends lending them a helping hand.

                “Oh, cut that out.” Ohh, look. Now _Stiles_ is growling. That’s new. Different. He kinda likes it. All rumbly and pleasant. But neither of them pay any attention the new growly Stiles who growls…he’ll work on a title later. Worse, now Jackson’s starting, his eyes darting between Scott and Isaac like he can’t decide which one he’s going to help and which one he’s going to tear apart. Which, in turns, makes Stiles growl a little more—towards the pompous jerkoff—because, dude, he is so not helping things. At all. And he’s sitting at the same table as Lydia—they’re back on again. For now.—and she’s looking at him funny. You know, because her _boyfriend_ is _growling_.

                Allison is freaking out a little, quietly, and Stiles wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve all gone glow-eyed. He considers flashing her a reassuring smile, but. Scott’s in territorial mode and Stiles really doesn’t need to be adding more oil to the flame.

                “Seriously. Knock it off.” Stiles tries again, and the only kind of success he’ll even halfway consider is the fact that Danny hasn’t started in too. And that’s not exactly something Stiles did. So. The votes are in. Stiles is pretty much a failure. At everything. Still.

                “ _Enough_!” Danny whisper-shouts with an ominous rumbling of his own and a Derek-worthy glare. And everybody finally shuts up. Dude. Stiles makes a mental note to never, ever piss of Danny. Apparently under all that nice-guy-next-door exterior is a beast not to be messed with.

                “Thanks.” Stiles breathes out, and Danny nods before going back to his lunch.

                Scott dons his patented sheepish look, which Stiles has dubbed the _did-I-just-do-that?_. It’s a cross between the _forgive-me_ puppy dog eyes and the _I’m-a-monster-don’t-look-at-me_ furrowed brow. It has the immediate effect of making Allison smile at him and tell him it’s okay. Stiles’ would kill to be able to make his face fight all his battles for him, but alas…

                Jackson glares—so not scary after months of Derek Hale, or even compared to new, super!badass Danny—and goes back to eating his lunch. Because the lunatic would never apologize for responding to inter-pack distress with a willingness to do violence to said pack. And Lydia is trying to discretely wrangle some answers out of him and Danny, but they’re both pretty much ignoring her. Stiles foresees another Jydia break-up in the very near future, which will make Jackson twice the asshole he usually is so everyone can feel his pain while he pretends he doesn’t have feelings. Great. Something to look forward to.

                Isaac, well…Isaac has kind of curled in on himself. And he’s shaking. He flinches when Stiles puts a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’ll listen. I’m sorry.”

                Oh. Wow. Yeah. Forgot about all that. “Hey, man. Calm down. S’not your fault Scott felt like letting his asshat flag fly. You were being threatened; you did what anyone one of us would have done. Hell, Jackson over there just about lost it too, and he totally didn’t have a reason.” Jackson pauses mid-bite of his apple to flip Stiles the bird, but whatever, that’s par for the course with them.

                Isaac is still hunched over, still waiting for the blow that isn’t coming. And Scott isn’t the only one able to use the power of puppy eyes, apparently, because Isaac looks up at him and Stiles wants to just _hug_ the kid. He has the sudden and intense desire to treat Isaac like a five-year-old: Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with chocolate milk for lunch, cartoons, sending him to bed and then tucking him in all snug and secure. It is, by far, the weirdest surge of emotion Stiles has ever experienced.

                So, Stiles gives in, and hugs him. For a moment Isaac is tense, so unused to any physical contact that didn’t hurt, but slowly he relaxes and hugs back and all is right with the world. Except, Isaac eyes should probably be listed as weapons of mass destruction. Because, seriously, Stiles couldn’t have not hugged him even if he’d wanted to. They’re like crystal clear pools of sadness and magic.

                “There. Now, Scott, apologize for being jackass.”

                “Sorry. Sometimes it just slips out. And then you growled back, and…” Scott mumbles from across the room, eyes darting between the floor and Allison.

                “I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to touch…” Isaac says quietly, and Stiles wants to hug him again. He refrains, but it’s a near thing. Weapons of mass destruction and sadness and _magic_. Seriously.

                “As the touchee,” Allison pauses to send a slightly irritated look at Scott, “I decide who’s allowed to touch me. And it was _fine_.”

                Scott frowns at himself, redirects his big puppy eyes back to the linoleum. And damn right too, because Allison might be his girlfriend, might be the “love of his life”, but she’s still her own person. Stiles promises to remember that when, well if, he ever gets a girlfriend. He has a feeling that it’s a wolf thing, one of the less cool aspects. Oh, gods. Stiles really hopes he doesn’t end up fighting with Jackson over Lydia. For many reasons. Including but not limited to: Jackson would totally kick his ass/kill him without a second’s thought; even if he won, Lydia wouldn’t care and would continue to ignore his very existence; Derek would be pissed about any inter-pack squabbling during a freaking war; Derek would be pissed about any pack squabbling over something as juvenile as a girl.

                Stiles is still thinking about all the ways challenging Jackson for Lydia’s hand would go terribly wrong when the bell rings and shatters his train of thought.

                “Crap. Crap.”

                “It’s fine.” Allison smiles, sliding his notebook back. It now has multiple pages filled up with all sorts of things. There’s a manifest of all the types of guns currently in the Argent household, with quickly sketched pictures. Same for knives and bows, even the different types of arrows and bullets. Stiles spends an extra second he doesn’t have examining her sketch of aconite bullets.

                “This is...this is really good. Thank you.” Stiles grins back, big and goofy and Stiles.

                “Walk with me? I want to talk to you about something else, too.”

                “Sure, if you don’t mind my new shadow.” He gestures to Isaac who turns his magic eyes of destruction on her.

                “He can come, too. It isn’t a secret or anything.”

                “Alrighty. Onwards towards English!” Stiles cries, complete with dramatic pointing. Because he’s cool like that, okay?

               

* * *

 

                Lydia lets out a low growl of her own. It is, admittedly, much less impressive than Jackson and Danny’s had been, but it’s still scary enough that the crowd parts like the Red Sea before her lest she take her anger out on them. Because she’s Lydia Martin, HBIC, and she can be one scary motherfucker when she wants to.

                Jackson is an ass. A confusing ass. They’ve been dating since they were ten, because they are seriously the two most attractive heterosexuals—because Danny could certainly give Jackson a run for his money in a hotness competition—and they rule this school together. Except, Jackson hasn’t been maintaining his throne with his normal obsessive perfection. He’s been too busy having whispered conversations with Scott McCall and Stiles Stilinski, and disappearing after school. He’s still dominating on the field—Scott the only person near his level on the field—and he’s still getting perfect grades—not quite measuring up to her own 4.2, but his own 4.0 is hardly something to be ashamed of—but he’s let his iron fist of intimidation and violence slip in the halls, and she hasn’t seen him in town _at all_ the last few days.

                And that is odd. He always “has plans” when she wants to do something. He always has “a lot on his mind” when she complains that he isn’t listening to her, isn’t paying enough attention. And that’s weird too. Because while Jackson would never go so far as to actually tell her he loves her, or even that he cares about her at all, he’s always made sure she’s _known_. That boy can quote—and _has_ at one point or another—every single one of Noah’s lines in _The Notebook_. Because she loves that movie, and he always watches it with her even though he claims to hate it. It’s what he falls back on when his douchebag exterior blots out his well-hidden sweetness, and he needs to get back in her good graces.

                She has a key to his house, for god’s sake. You don’t go around handing out keys to just anyone.

                So why, exactly, is he suddenly too busy to give a damn about her?

                The lack of answers, _that_ is what’s so freaking weird because Lydia knows Jackson and his issues like the back of her hand and she always knows why he’s doing what he’s doing. Even when she hates him, she understands. But this…she doesn’t understand this. And that scares her a little. That something has changed so much that she doesn’t know him the way she used to. The way she should.

                So, because she’s Lydia Martin, HBIC, she decides to find out.

               

* * *

 

                Quickly, Allison fills Stiles—and probably every other werewolf at the school—in about her father’s filing cabinet of contingencies, and her plan to get a closer look.

                “Er…Jackson, you down with that? We probably want know what’s in those files. And by ‘probably’ I mean _we want to know what’s in those files_.” Stiles asks thin air before cocking his head to the side. Like a dog. Allison fights off the odd and inappropriate urge to scratch behind his ears. Because that would be weird and not helpful at all. “He says he will, but you’re going to have to explain it to Lydia.”

                Allison winces at that. Because the first rule is that you do not date your friend’s exes. Ever. Not that this is a date. Not really. Or that Lydia and Jackson are broken up this week. But still.

                Stiles grins at the look of abject horror Allison has no doubt is currently on her face and says, “And on second thought, you should totally invite Lydia too. Call it a study group. That’ll give Jackson—who they still don’t know about for sure, since he’s too good to hang out with the likes of us—a recurring opportunity to check things out, and provide a lovely distraction for your parents and other extended family members….oh, Danny wants to know if he can come too. Also, when did I become everyone’s personal carrier pigeon? You two can actually _come over_ , dilweeds…”

                At his complaint, Danny and Jackson magically appear. She’s been covertly trained to kill these creatures, and she still almost jumps at the way they seem to materialize out of thin air.

                “Can I join your study group? Safety in numbers, what with all the animal attacks.” Danny says with a perfectly straight face. Like he isn’t completely safe from wild animals from now until the end of time. You know. Since he _is_ one of the ‘animals’.

                “Of course.” Allison gives a picturesque smile, the kind that a normal seventeen-year old-girl would give to her normal sixteen-year-old friends while they discussed forming a study group. Nothing to see here, nothing suspicious, keep moving along.

                This is why she’d wanted to ask Stiles’ opinion first. The boy is sneaky; Allison is not. She’s been a good girl all her life. She doesn’t know how to go about doing things like breaking into her father’s office—without raising suspicions, at least; she’s been able to accomplish the mechanics of it since she was eight, and how had she never thought to notice how _insane_ that was?—but Stiles does. And Stiles is willing to teach her.

                Allison always was a fast learner.

                “Right.” Allison nods, because Stiles _is_ a genius, sometimes, and she forgets that a lot. “So Jackson, Lydia, and Danny come over, Jackson distracts Lydia, Danny distracts my parents, I sneak in and take pictures of the place.” She gives a firm nod of resolution, determined to do this and do it _right_. Because the pack—her pack?—needs this information, and she has access to it, and that’s just how it works.

                She buries the slightest twinge of guilt saying, _but he’s your father. He loves you. Protects you. Can you really **betray** him like this?_

                Because the answer is yes. Inequitably, _yes_. And the fact that there is no doubt there at all scares her, makes her wonder if she’s not as far removed from the rest of her family’s madness as she thought. Because it should be hard, shouldn’t it? Do decide such things. She should have changed her mind a hundred different times. She should have, at the very least, felt bad about her treason.

                But she doesn’t.

                Because they may be her family, her parents. And she may love them, but the fact of the matter is simply just this: she is not willing to kill for them, to let them kill for her.

                “Just, uh,” Allison starts, wondering how to phrase it delicately without upsetting Scot any more than he’s likely to be just because Jackson is going to be spending time with her. “Make sure Scott knows that I wish it was him?”

                “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Stiles says, but his tone is kind and his eyes are smiling. “Big love, big jealousy. I know. I’ll keep Fido in line….hmm, should probably stop with the dog jokes now since they all technically apply to me too now…”

                “Please,” Jackson groans, his exasperation obvious to the whole hall, and probably honest too. Becoming a werewolf didn’t give Jackson a new personality, and he’s never been fond of Stiles. “Please tell me Stilinski isn’t going to be there. Cause I’m out if he is. I don’t care what Lydia says or wants or whatever. I’m not spending a single second with _that_ that I don’t have to.”

                “Thanks for the welcoming invitation, but I have my own study group. And by study I mean tutoring, because Scott needs help. So, _so_ much help…” Stiles sighs sadly, like Scott’s inability to grasp historical dates, algebraic equation, basic chemistry, and proper grammar and spelling are personal offenses against him.               


	17. Snarl

                Isaac feels sick. His senses are really starting to kick in now, and it’s so much. Too much. Too fast. Everything, all at once. His ears are ringing with a hundred different voices. The scents of every student who’s had this class today linger, clinging to the air and suffocating him. The smallest details are carved in the sharpest contrast, bursts of colors so clear it hurts his eyes. His taste buds have recalculated, flavors exploding across his tongue.

                It’s too much, too much, too much.

                He’s going to be sick. He’s going to…

                “Are you okay, Isaac?”

                Nothing.

                Sudden and crisp. Perfect clarity.

                Isaac opens the eyes he hadn’t realized were closed, releases the breath he hadn’t meant to hold, drags the hand he doesn’t remember moving out of the tangled mess of his hair. The girl from the library, Erica, is looking at him with worry.

                Isaac forces a smile. This is easy. This is something he’s used to. Isaac knows how to convince people he’s fine when he isn’t. “Headache.” It isn’t even a lie, just a massive understatement.

                Isaac distracts himself from the all-encompassing everythingness of his new senses by studying the exact shade of gold in Erica’s blonde hair, the spark of life in her chocolate brown eyes, the faint scent of sickness beneath strawberries and lavender clinging to her skin. As long as he focuses on the details of Erica, he doesn’t have to be assaulted by all things all at once.

                Which is exactly when some asshole starts kicking the back of her chair. Not particularly hard. Not enough that anyone else would notice. But Isaac notices. Because the steady thunk-thunk- _thunk_ of this guy’s foot is drowning out the soothing rhythm of Erica’s heartbeat.

                Isaac directs his attention to the chair-kicker, hand lashing out to grip the other boy’s arm tightly. He squeezes, not too tight. Not even enough to bruise, but definitely enough to get his attention. “What’re you—”

                There’s a twinge of pain in his gums, and Isaac is pretty sure he’s showing a bit of fang. Not so much as to be unnatural. Just enough to be incredibly intimidating. “Stop. It.” The words slither from between his lips, teeth bared in a vicious snarl.

                Fear flits across his face, and he tries to jerk his arm back. But Isaac won’t let him have it. “Hey, man, let go.”

                “ _Apologize_.” There is a chance that Isaac may have claws. He’ll freak out about that later. Right now it’s really important that this guy does what Isaac tells him to. If he doesn’t…well, Isaac doesn’t have the best control of himself right now.

                “Christ, sorry.”

                “Not to me. To _her_.” There’s a growl vibrating deep in his throat, and he’s about five seconds from ripping this kid’s throat out—literally, because he can _do_ that now—and it must come across on his face.

                Ba-bum-Ba-bum-Ba-bum, goes his heart. Picking up speed as the smell of his fear hits Isaac. “I’m sorry.”

                And Isaac feels sick again. He did that. He made someone afraid. Just because he could. Slowly, afraid that the slightest movement will just make everything worse, he reclaims his hand from the boy’s arm. Red welts are already rising. In a few hours they’ll darken, purple and black. And Isaac _did_ _that_. He hurt someone weaker than him. Because he could.

                Because he wanted to.

                Erica looks like she’s about to say something, but Isaac needs to get out. He needs to get out right now. He stands abruptly, walks quickly from the room. It’s not a run, but only just, and the teacher’s voice is calling after him.

                A whimper slips between tightly clenched teeth—just teeth again, fangs long gone—as he darts into the restroom. He curls into a ball in the handicapped stall and just stays. Afraid of himself. He looks human again, all trembling skin and shuddering sobs and hot tears.

                He had _wanted_ to.

                Isaac looks human now, but he has never felt more like a monster.

               

* * *

 

                Something feels wrong.

                Every one of Jackson’s senses is screaming at him. Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong! Something is _wrong_! Every nerve is begging him to move, to run, to get…somewhere. His skin is crawling with the need to do something. But he doesn’t know what.

                “Mr. Harris, I have to go to the office!” Stiles says, with a panicky desperation. And Jackson thinks maybe he can feel it too. “I forgot my Adderall.”

                “Go. For the love of God. But I’ll see you in Saturday school, Stilinski.” Harris growls.

                Stiles is up and gone in a blink. Jackson tries ignoring it, let Stilinski take care of whatever the problem is, but he can’t focus on anything because everything is wrong. It’s a pounding in his head, a slow throb. Wrong---wrong---wrong---wrong.

                “May I go to the restroom?”

                “Of course.” Harris smiles at him, he’s always let Jackson do whatever he wants.

                Jackson is up and out, following the unique scent of Stiles—cinnamon and sugar and Wolf and Pack. He can hear McCall shout that he’s about to be sick, and a few moments later they’re walking down the halls together—noses in the air, tracking Stiles and searching for what’s wrong—like they don’t hate each other. They find Danny before they find Stiles; he’s out wandering the halls too. They can all feel it. That overwhelming sensation of wrong- _wrong_ - **wrong** - ** _WRONG!!_** screaming at them.

                “What the hell is going on?” Danny asks, and it’s never a good sign when Danny loses his cool. Danny is _always_ calm. “My head has fucking declared war…on _itself_.”

                “Don’t know. We’ve got it too though.”

                And then Jackson catches the scent of the other kid too. Isaac. Copper and mint, mixed with toxic amounts of fear and loathing. Oh god. Jackson actually retches. Because. _Dude_.

                “Oh, god.” Danny looks about three seconds away from gagging too, and McCall is totally upchucking in the janitor’s mobile trashcan. “What _is_ it?”

                Right. Danny had been human the last time he’d been around Isaac; he wouldn’t know it was him.

                “Isaac.” Scott rasps, rushing into the restroom where the smell is coming from.

                Isaac is curled into a shaking little ball and making these pathetic little whimpering sounds, and something in Jackson just— _twists_. A low whine escapes from his throat, completely without his permission.

                He’d feel worse about it if Stilinski wasn’t full-on spooning with the kid, and McCall hadn’t immediately dropped to the floor to nuzzle against Isaac throat and chest. Hell, even Danny gets on the floor, lies down and pulls Isaac’s head into his lap, fingers carding through his curls.

                Jackson holds himself back. Ignores the sudden, desperate need to reach out and touch, to comfort. He doesn’t do that. He’s not that guy. He’s snide comments and insults guy. He doesn’t, he doesn’t do _emotions_. But his whole body is shaking with the effort, and he feels like he’s going to shake apart.

                So he gives in.

                Another low whine, and he’s the littlest spoon in a Stiles-Isaac-Jackson sandwich. His legs get all tangled up with theirs. Isaac’s hand grab at him and fist in his shirt. Danny’s free hand is stroking the back of his neck. Stiles’ arm wraps around both of them. Scott’s left hand is petting his hair.

                This is so messed up. So very messed up and more than a little gay, but Jackson can’t stop it. The wolf howls inside his mind. This is Pack, this is family, and it _needs_ him.

                Jackson has never, ever been needed just because he was Jackson.

                The bell rings. They’ve been lying like this for the better part of twenty minutes, but they don’t move. They don’t even think about moving.

                And then the door opens.

                At once the poor freshman who needed to take a leak is confronted by four snarling juniors.

                “Get. Out.” They speak as one, and it freaks Jackson out on one level. The other, the wolfy level, is thrilled. Unison, cohesion, _Pack_.

                Teeth sharpen, claws descend, eyes flash. Isaac is wounded, Isaac is weak, Isaac needs _protecting_. And god help the fool that tries to touch him right now. The first person to take more than one step into this room is going to _die_. Quickly and violently.

                The kid eeps and bolts, but the pack remains at attention. Prepared to attack at the first sign of attack.

                Every time someone tries to come in, they flee from the snarling pack of boys, until the bell rings and they stop coming. A few more seconds, and Allison slips in. Jackson’s hackles rise, a low growl in all their throats, fangs flashing. Even McCall. But…

                Isaac reaches for her.

                The snarling stops. Without another word, or even thought, the pack collapses on top of each other again.

                “Everyone’s talking about the group of guys in the bathroom; I figured it would be you.” Allison says, slipping into place between Scott and Jackson. Somehow. “They didn’t mention all the cuddling.”

                The pack rumbles their acknowledgement. Allison fits right in, impossibly. Humanness not even a factor. She feels comfortable and safe. Jackson puts his hand on her shin, just below the knee. He wants more of this feeling. This connection.

                Which is when Derek walks in.

               

* * *

 

                “Someone want to explain this to me?” Derek snarls. Seriously. He can’t leave these kids alone for a few hours? It’s a school. They should be able to get through a few classes without suffering massive emotional trauma.

                “I hurt him.” Isaac whispers from the center of the pile of young werewolves—and one human, and Derek will have to deal with that later because Allison fucking _Argent_ should not be a part of his pack’s…puppy pile. Not now. Not with hunters crawling over every inch of this town, eyes and ears searching for any hint of Wolf. Is she trying to get herself killed?—and then Derek focuses on the content of conversation. The answer to his question. The reason he had to drive up here while his wolf slammed against his mind and howled for release because there was something wrong with the Pack.

                “Hurt who?”

                “Some guy. In class.”

                It takes Derek a minute to put the pieces together. He’s a man who uses violence in his daily life the way most people use words. It’s the way he communicates. And Isaac is freaking out because he’d damaged a classmate a little? Then he remembers the man he killed last night, the reason Isaac is Pack at all.

                “You liked it.”

                A pitiful whimpering whine is his only answer, and Derek gives in the instinct. He sits on the floor, back against the door, and opens his arms. “Come here. All of you.”

                There’s an immediate mad scramble from the wolves, each rushing to their Alpha. Stiles and Jackson shelter Isaac between them and ensure that the younger boy gets prime real estate on Derek’s lap, his head cushioned on his thigh. Jackson curls around Isaac, Derek’s arm over his shoulders. Danny is mirroring Jackson on Derek’s other side. Stiles has managed to squeeze in between Isaac and Jackson, the top of his head pressing against Derek while he fills the Jackson-Stiles-Isaac sandwich. Scott is lying with his head on Derek’s other thigh, reaching a hand out to Allison who, understandably, is more hesitant to join the pile.

                “I said, ‘all of you’.” He can bitch her out for her lack of discretion later. Right now there is Pack bonding to be done, and Derek remembers—in memories singed and charred—doing the same thing with his family all those years ago whenever one of them was hurting. So he makes the exception, remembers to forget all the reasons he never lets anyone touch him anymore.

                This is more important.

                Allison obeys, laying her head on Scott and reaching out to hold hands with Isaac and Danny.

                “It’s okay, you know.” Stiles says quietly. “That you hurt someone on accident. Scott tried to kill me a whole bunch of times when he first got turned.”

                “But…” Isaac whimpers again. “But, I _liked_ it. Hurting him.”

                “No.” Derek rumbles.

                “Your wolf did.” Jackson clarifies, and Derek will have to think of some kind of reward for the kid for finally acting like Pack instead of Omega.

                “It’s _not_ the same thing.” Scott adds, speaking as the oldest of the Betas.

                There’s silence after that. Just Derek and his Pack. Together.


	18. Snap

                Isaac plays the same way Stiles does now that he has the bite. A little quicker, a little more accurate, a little stronger, a little harder to bring down. But not any more than could be explained naturally. Danny lets a few goals slip through, but he doesn’t have to inhibit himself much; he’s always been a good goalie so no one really notices that he makes a few saves that maybe he wouldn’t have been able to before.

                All in all, it’s a pretty normal practice. Right up until Greenberg starts illegally body-checking Stiles for showing him up. Stiles keeps waving them off, at first. But the tension is growing thicker with every collision, with every _thud_ as Stiles hits the ground.

                Revenge is important to Pack.

                Isaac starts hitting Greenberg with the ball instead of successfully passing it to him. The ball rockets into his chest, his helmet. And every impact makes a gratifying sound that Isaac somehow knows means there will be bruises later. It doesn’t bother him this time. Because Greenberg had hurt Stiles first, and that made it okay to hurt him a little, to want to hurt him a lot. It’s not like it was in his house, and he is not his father.

                Jackson makes it a point to never pass to Greenberg and the other players are taking their cues from him, their captain. Because Scott may have the title of co-captain, but everyone still looks to Jackson to lead. And when Greenberg does manage to get the ball, Danny makes sure he never gets to score. Scott takes to “accidently” hitting him with his stick every time they’re near each other, each passing blow hitting with a satisfying thwack.

                Isaac smiles, a wicked and feral thing. This is the other side of Pack, the opposite side of the coin to this afternoon’s cuddly comfort: vicious vengeance.

                “Stop hitting me with the goddamn ball!” Greenberg shouts after a particularly hard throw from Isaac bounces off his helmet and actually knocks him on his ass. Much to the amusement of the rest of the team.

                “Maybe if you spent less time pounding on Stiles for doing a good job,” Scott snaps, “You could focus on catching it like you’re supposed to.”

                “Enough.” Jackson snaps as well, though this has more of a rehearsed feel to it than any real feeling. Jackson still pretending not to be Pack, pretending to avoid suspicion so he can play double agent with Allison. “We’re done for the day. Hit the showers.”

                “Hey! That’s my call!” Coach shouts, blowing his whistle for effect. “Everybody hit the showers!”

                In the locker room, Greenberg is tripped, shoved, and smacked numerous times by just about everyone. Because he’s made an ass out of himself and incurred the wrath of both co-captains. Co-captains who allegedly _hate_ each other. If they’re on the same page, Greenberg really deserves every bruise.

                “Oh, hey!” Stiles grins, so very proud of himself. “I made dietary plans for you all! Full of yummy, but healthy, mix-and-match meals! Plus, _snack_ options!”

                Stiles flits about, flailing gracelessly—which is impressive when Isaac thinks about him having to try and do it on purpose—and handing out sheets of paper to the team. Isaac glances at his and smiles. Because, dude. Stiles _made_ him a meal plan. That’s the most positive attention Isaac has gotten since he was four. And, yeah, he made enough for the whole team, not just him. But Isaac’s has little notes typed into it. Notes that are very _not_ -generic. Like “mostly on the full moon because that’s when werewolves eat small woodland creatures” next to rabbit, or “because I noticed that massive sweet tooth you’re packing” next to the _snack_ portion. And there’s a chance that Isaac may cry. Again.

                God. “Emotional roller-coaster” was not part of the werewolf advertising campaign. But then, neither was semi-dissociative identity disorder. Derek should really work on his warning labels. Not that it would have made a difference.

                “Where’s mine?” Greenberg glowers once Stiles has passed them all out.

                “Greenberg, you don’t get one anymore, because you’re a dick.” Stiles snaps, crumpling the remaining paper into a tiny ball. “I hope you eat like a moron, get fat, and never get to play again.” He adds with a smile.

                Greenberg charges forward, hands out to strike, and oh _hell_ no.

                Isaac reaches out, catches the back of his collar, and yanks the bastard back. And then bodily throws him into the lockers. Scott looms in front of Stiles protectively. Jackson’s hands are clenched in tight fists, but Isaac knows he can’t allow himself to join in.

                “Knock it off, Greenberg. Stilinski’s getting better. That’s a _good_ thing.” Danny mutters through gritted teeth, somehow managing to sound almost casual.

                “Lahey,” Jackson barks. “Stop throwing around my players; Greenberg, stop being such a tool. Stilinski, give him his damn diet; it’s not like we’re going to actually _use_ it.”

                “I resent that!” Stiles says, but he diligently gives Greenberg his crumpled plan. By tossing the crumpled ball of paper at his feet. “I feel extremely under-appreciated, Cap. Er…Co-Cap.”

                “Shut it, Stilinski.” Jackson glowers, and there’s probably some real irritation there.

                “Shutting, shutting, shut.” Stiles promptly opens/hides behind his locker and starts changing out of his gear. Isaac does the same, a tiny smile spreading out across his face every time he catches sight of his diet.

                “Isaac.” Matt Daehler says. And, dude. What the hell? Matt hasn’t talked him since he was _nine_.

                “Yeah?” Isaac looks over, trying to remember to keep himself meek and quiet and the way he was instead of the way he is now.

                “I just wanted to say. Well, uh. Sorry about your dad.” Matt rubs the back of his neck, his eyes on the floor.

                “Yeah.” Isaac swallows the lump his throat. He’d forgotten about that. For a little while. “Thanks.”

                “And…” Matt starts again, but he doesn’t get the chance to finish.

                “Isaac, my buddy, my friend, my roomie,” Stiles appears out of nowhere, “We’ve got go, we’ll be late. Derek hates it when we’re late. He does this whole snarling-growly thing and starts slamming people—mostly me—into hard surfaces. Seriously, he’s not really the cuddle-wolf you saw earlier. So, we’ve got to go.”

                “Right.” Isaac says, closing his locker firmly. Matt used to be his friend, but he isn’t anymore. Hasn’t been in a long time. And Isaac has new friends now. “See you later, Matt.”

                “Yeah…later…”

               

* * *

 

                Danny is sitting next to Jackson in the Porsche, because the unspoken rules of this war demand that Danny and Jackson distance themselves from known pack members. And if Jackson were to suddenly stop hating Scott and Stiles and start giving them rides around town, there would be talk. And then everyone would know, and then  he wouldn’t be able to hang out in Allison’s “study group” and help keep an eye on the Argents. So, Danny and Jackson take the Porsche, and Stiles and Scott take the jeep, and everyone is safe. Well. Safe- _ish_.

                Isaac goes with Stiles, because, duh, they live together now and why wouldn’t they car-pool?

                Jackson’s busy driving and focusing really hard on not messing up his car’s pristineness on the terrible backroads that lead to Derek’s. So Danny decides to read Stiles composed dietary plan. It’s…actually, it’s really good. Well thought out and detailed. A dozen options for each meal, with the caloric content included beside each item and mixable however Danny wants to mix them, and the total number of calories he needs to be eating a day to keep up with his metabolism and training.

                And, dude, he did not realize that the standard werewolf diet included packing away five _thousand_ calories a day. No wonder he’d been so fucking hungry all day.

                He sneaks a peek at Jackson’s, because Jackson won’t notice and wouldn’t care even if he did.

                It’s similar. But Danny notices a few discrepancies, and double checks. Yep. Stiles has gone out of his way to figure out their favorite foods—and how he managed to do that, Danny will never know—and incorporate them into their respective diets. And, jeeze, that is a serious amount of dedication for a kid that they haven’t really been on speaking terms with for most of their lives.

                Jackson actually went out of his way to torture the guy on more than one occasion. And this, this is more than Danny can account for from a simple werewolf bite. Danny doesn’t have the urge to do anything like this for his packmates. And, if it were asked of him, he sure as hell wouldn’t bother trying to individualize it so each person would absolutely enjoy their plan.

               

* * *

 

                Jackson, after a lacrosse practice, takes Danny and follows Stiles’ jeep out of the parking lot.  And Lydia follows him. She’s careful to keep twenty feet between her and his Porsche—like they say to do in all those crappy crime dramas she sometimes watches—all the way to the outskirts of town, and up into the Hale woods, and finally to the Hale house. And when Stiles’ little blue jeep that could, but probably shouldn’t, and Jackson’s fine piece of mechanical engineering finally stop, Lydia pulls her purple Volkswagen bug up and parks it up Jackson’s ass.

                And when she gets out, everyone starts talking out the same time.

                “Lydia!” Stiles kind of, well, screeches. And points, with a flail that seems much more graceful than his usual bumbling.

                “Dude. You brought your girlfriend?” New kid Lydia doesn’t know the name of says with disbelief.

                “She _can’t_ be here.” Scott, looking far more commanding than she’s ever seen him outside that one, isolated incident where they totally made-out. So much hotter than his usual lost puppy look. But since she doesn’t feel like taunting Jackson at the moment, or completely screwing over her best friend by macking on her boyfriend, Lydia doesn’t have time for him and his orders-demands-statements. He can deal with presence; it’s not going anywhere.

                “How could you not notice that?!” Danny says, and, wow, he sounds pissed.

                “What the hell are you doing here?” Jackson snaps, and if Danny was pissed, Jackson is _enraged_. He stalks over, all narrowed eyes and scowling lips and if Lydia was really the shallow half-wit she pretends to be, she’d have been cowed. But she isn’t, so she’s not. Jackson doesn’t _scare_ her. “You need to go. Right now.” He snaps, and his hand is on her arm, squeezing tight as he manhandles her to her car, and it _hurts_.

                For all the ways Jackson has been an asshole all his life, he has never _once_ hurt her.

                “Jackson, you’re hurting me.” She assumes that this will make him let go immediately and mutter an apology low enough that his friends can’t hear.

                It doesn’t.

                “Too bad. You need to be _not_ here.” And he means it, Lydia can tell. Which means that she definitely wants to stay.

                “Why?” Because nothing this important to Jackson should be unknown to her. There is nothing in his whole life she doesn’t know about; why the hell should this be any different?

                Jackson opens his mouth to answer, then freezes. Turns, and Lydia follows his gaze with her own. Derek Hale. Derek “recently suspected of multiple murders” Hale.

                “Jackson, why is your bitch here?”

                “Hey!” Outrage overpowers self-preservation for a moment. Because Lydia Martin is a bitch, but she’s not _Jackson’s_. “He doesn’t own me!”

                “Shut up, Lyds. Oh my god.” He snaps, again, flashing white teeth clicking harshly as he bites off the words.

                “Jesus, we can’t even keep high school girls—even if Lydia is beautiful and brilliant, that’s no excuse—from following us. We’re going to _die_.” Stiles moans, smacking his head into the hood of his jeep. Because he’s a freak.

                “Jackson.” Derek freaking Hale barks, and it’s just his name, but it sounds like an order.

                “She followed us. But she’s leaving. She’s leaving right. Now.” He turns to her for that last part, the hand not currently bruising her arm opening the door to her car.

                And then everything, absolutely everything, dissolves into a mad hell Lydia cannot even begin to understand.

                “The great Derek Hale. I thought you’d be bigger.”

                **_BANG_**


	19. Interlude: Bang

 

                “The great Derek Hale. I thought you’d be bigger.”

                **_BANG_**

                It happens all at once. In the blink of an eye.

                The world falls apart.

               

* * *

 

                Isaac falls, hand over his chest, blood seeping out between his fingers. A crimson stain spreading out from the center, his light gray hoody suddenly turning dark red. Breathing choked and wet and thick, tiny specks and bubbles of blood clinging to the corners of his lips. And it hurts. So much more than he’d felt before. More than that time Dad accidently broke his arm when he was five. More than he’d ever imagined anything could.

    

* * *

 

                Jackson has Lydia pinned between his her car and his body, providing her with her own werewolf body shield. Keeping her _safe_. He’s wolfed out and angry and _scared_. His claws are digging into the metal, scratching and denting the frame with the force of his grip. He can smell blood in the air. Isaac’s blood. And oh, god. Oh _god_. They shot Isaac. They _shot_ Isaac. They shot _Isaac_. Poor, scared, little Isaac whom Jackson had cuddled and comforted only a few hours ago. How could it only have been a few _hours_ ago?

                They shot Isaac, and Lydia is danger, and the pack is under attack.

     

* * *

 

                Stiles drops to his knees, does all those basic first-aid things he had to take a class on. Apply pressure, stop the bleeding, wait for Isaac to heal. Because he’s a werewolf, and they _heal_. They heal fast, and Isaac going to be fine.

                But the blood is still spreading, pooling out on the ground, and there’s so much of it. Why isn’t he healing? He should be healing. Stiles doesn’t know how to fix this. Oh god, Isaac can’t die; he’s just a fucking _kid_. He’ll heal. He _has_ to heal.

           

* * *

 

                Derek howls. It’s a battle cry ripping its way out of his throat. It’s sorrow freezing in his bones. It’s pain boiling in his blood. It’s rage pounding in his chest. It’s the depths of despair, the heights of shame. It is the bitter taste of grief at the back of his throat. It’s the press of tragedy against his lips once more.

                He won’t lose his Pack again.

                He. Will. Not.

               

* * *

 

                Danny shifts. He’s never done that before. But suddenly he has more hair than ever before, and fangs, and claws, and his sight is bloody, bloody _red_. And all he wants to do is rip apart the people who hurt Isaac. It is the single most important thing in the entire world, that they feel pain and can never hurt the Pack again.

                Danny has never felt anything like it. What happened earlier in the bathroom was a pale echo, a hollow illusion of _this_.

                He’s crouched, protective, over the downed member of his pack. And Danny is planning on ripping out the throat of anyone stupid enough to get anywhere near the wounded boy.

               

* * *

 

                Scott rushes forward. He can’t not. His wolf has always been vengeful, even before he had a pack to avenge. And now that he has something to fight for, something _worth_ fighting for.

                Well…Scott’s always been afraid of his wolf’s capacity for murder and mayhem.

                He isn’t afraid anymore.

   

* * *

 

                Jackson is pressed up against her. Tight. Shielding her. And was that a freaking _gunshot_?

                Lydia ducks her head, manages to catch a glimpse of what’s happening. Derek’s howling like a wounded animal, Scott’s launching himself at the gunmen—so, yes, it had been a gunshot. Oh. Oh, _god_. It had been a gunshot—with reckless abandon, Danny is crouched in front of…Stiles who is on his knees…applying pressure to Unknown-Kid’s chest.

                Oh.

                _Oh_.

                He’s been shot. Someone’s been _shot._


	20. Let Slip the Dogs of War, Part II

                This is war.

                It is brutal. It is vicious. It is ugly. It is not noble. It is not a dance. It is not glorious.

                This is _war_.

                And it is _hell_.

                There were five of them, enough that Derek should have heard them coming. Would have heard them coming if Lydia’s unexpected presence hadn’t so distracted him. But he knows they’re here now, and they’re stupid and overconfident, and they’ve shot a member of his Pack.

                And they are all going to die.

                This is a simple fact, as real and unchanging as gravity. The sky blue. The grass is green. These men are going to die.

                Scott has already reached the shooter, currently has his face—his teeth—buried in his throat. His claws are digging into his shoulders, circles of red blood forming at the point of penetration and streaking, scarlet and free, in think spurts.

                Derek flip-kicks a hunter in the face, the neck _snaps_ like a brittle twig under the force, and lands on his hands and feet. He launches himself from the ground as a spray of bullets sink in, and his claws shred through someone’s jugular and trachea like a knife through soft cheese. The _slightest_ resistance…but not much. Blood, hot and wet, splashes across his face and chest and he howls with victory.

                Scott’s disengaged from the shooter to maul one of the only two remaining hunters, his claws slashing through the veins in his gun hand before tackling him to the earth in a spray of crimson.

                The second remaining hunter tries to run; Derek borrows his hand through his back, wraps his claws around his spine, and _yanks_. It doesn’t come out…at first. There’s the infinitesimal sound of tiny cracks erupting, the sweet whisper of bone and nerve splintering, the agonized scream as the hunter finds himself paralyzed from the abdomen down. His legs unable to support him any longer, he sags, all of his weight propped up by Derek’s arm. By Derek’s grip on his fucking _spine_. He jerks it once more, quickly and harshly, and it comes free.

                Well. A _portion_ of it.

                These hunters were stupid. Attacking in broad daylight, against so many? Willingly revealing themselves, out in the open and so easy to eliminate. Derek can only hope the rest of his enemies are so blatantly moronic and that the rest of his battles so easily won. Derek tosses the spine over his shoulder as he observes the battlefield. Five dead hunters, in bloody chunks. Literal chunks. There’s an _arm_ about five feet to his left. Someone was…enthusiastic… Not that Derek has any room to talk. Hand. Spine. It was a thing.

                Scott went and got himself shot in the leg at some point, blood oozing from his thigh. It looks like the bullet’s at least nicked an artery. Jackson is shielding Lydia—and isn’t that telling? He’s going to need to have a conversation with the two of them in the near future. Like the next few hours—and Stiles is in perfect condition, playing medic while Danny, also unharmed, stands guard. And Isaac.

                Oh. _Isaac_.

                There’s a puddle of blood soaking into the earth, green grass suddenly red. No. Not again. This will not, cannot, must not happen again. Derek can’t fucking lose his pack again. He won’t survive it. He won’t.

                Derek sprints to his beta, Scott stumble-limping behind him.

                “He’s not _healing_!” Danny shouts at him when he kneels next to his fallen pack member. “Why isn’t he healing?!”

                “Stiles.” Derek barks, “Go get the shooter’s gun. You know what we need.”

                Derek steels himself, because the bullet right through Isaac’s chest. It’s possible that they’re already too late. That the wolf’s bane has already spread too far, and Isaac is going to die.

                But damned if Derek isn’t going to do everything he can to make sure it’s a possibility that does not come to pass. He’s just a fucking _kid_ , and Derek dragged him into this war, and why the hell are all these goddamned kids following him? Can’t they see he has no idea what he’s doing?

                Stiles holds the bullet out to him, and Derek examines it, praying for good news. There is, thank the gods. Derek snatches it out of his hand, pulls off the cap, and pours the powdered poison into his mouth. It burns. Devil’s helmet wolf’s bane was never meant to even touch a lycanthrope, but maybe that’s why this is the only cure: devil’s helmet mixed with an Alpha’s saliva and human blood.

                Derek spits the mixture into Isaac’s wound, a thick blue glob that may just save the boy’s life, and then shoves two fingers—coated in Hunter’s blood—in as well.

                Isaac screams, writhes on the ground. It’s a terrible sight, a terrible sound. Derek wants to close his eyes and ears and pretend it isn’t happening. But this is war. And it’s ugly. And it’s hell. And every one of these stupid kids needs to know it.

                And so does Derek.

               

* * *

 

                When Jackson finally moves off her, Lydia wishes he hadn’t. The field is… It’s a nightmare given life. There is blood everywhere. So, so much blood. And the people? The ones with guns? They’re dead. Not _maybe_ -dead like New-Kid, still and quiet and bleeding, _dead_ -dead. In _pieces_ , dead. There are body parts, just parts, littering the bloodstained grass. Arms and hands and heads and a chunk of what Lydia can only assume is _spine_.

                Derek is covered in blood. Hands slippery scarlet up to the elbow. A spray pattern across his shirt, his face. And, Jesus fucking Christ, if Derek is covered, Scott is _drenched_. His face is a crimson mask, dripping. There is no inch of his front that isn’t coated in wet red.

                Derek runs over, Scott following much slower. And Lydia thinks he might be hurt, but it’s an abstract thought at this point—the shock sinking in.

                “He’s not _healing_!” Danny is screaming.

                _Duh_ , says the analytical part of her brain. _You don’t just_ heal _from a gunshot wound to the chest._

                 “Why isn’t he healing?!”

_Because he’s been shot._

                “Stiles, go get the shooter’s gun. You know what we need.” Derek orders, ripping New Kid’s shirt open by cleaving it clean in two with his bare hands.

_That’s not going to help._

                It looks so much worse now. The jagged little hole where the bullet went in. Blood still oozing out weakly, smeared all over his chest. And there’s something… _wrong_ …with it. Thick veins of purple-blue spreading out from the wound like a spider web. Lydia isn’t a doctor, and she’s hardly in the best frame of mind, but she’s pretty sure that’s a wicked poison of some kind and that any chance this kid of not dying pretty much flew right out the fucking window.

                Someone should be calling 911. Calling someone, anyone for help. Why is no one calling for help? Why isn’t she? Someone should do that. Get an ambulance. Because there’s a boy bleeding out, _dying_ , next to Stiles’ jeep. And the cops. Because Derek and Scott just killed—slaughtered, butchered, _massacred_ —a half dozen people. There should be sirens. EMTs and police officers. _Adults_.

                Stiles hands Derek something, and then Derek is pouring gunpowder into his mouth and spiting it on New Kid before sticking in a couple of fingers for good measure. And then he’s screaming, the kid, just screaming while he has what Lydia can only describe as a seizure.

                And then he stills. She thinks he might be dead for a moment, but then she remembers to notice that his chest is moving with breath.

                What. the Holy hell. Is _happening_.

                “Get Isaac in the jeep.” Derek demands. “It’s not safe here anymore. Follow me.”

                And at his command, Stiles and Scott and Danny are picking Isaac up. Jackson moves to help, but Derek stops him. Jackson whimpers, kind of helplessly, and Lydia has never once heard Jackson make that sound before.

                “Stay with her; she’s part of this now.”

                Part of this? Part of what? No one’s saying anything. Derek’s climbing into a shiny black Camaro and Stiles and Scott and Danny are clambering into the jeep, and Jackson is going pale and clutching her hand with a sick sort of desperation that scares her while ushering her into his car.

               

* * *

 

                The Beacon Hills Rail Station That Never Was. Of course. Desolate, a little damp, and completely abandoned. Just Derek’s style. Stiles would make a wise-crack of some kind—and it would be hilarious—but he’s too busy worrying about Isaac, who still hasn’t regained consciousness, to even think about jokes.

                There’s blood on his hands. Isaac’s blood.

                They’re all bloody, really. From fighting, from saving, from moving. Everyone but Jackson and Lydia have blood on their skin, and Stiles takes a moment to be thankful that no one—his _dad_ —pulled them over on the way here. Because they look they a bunch of murderers.

                Because they kinda are.

                And that’s a thought he needs to process. Later. Much, much later. When he’s not wondering if one of his friends is ever going to wake up again. They unload Isaac from the jeep, but there’s nowhere to put him but the ground. But the ground is _clean_ at least, not at all what one would expect in the gutted echo of a project that never went anywhere; Derek’s clearly been planning on moving here for a while. There’s equipment, actual honest to moon, training equipment. Like, machines and stuff.

                Jackson and Lydia are huddled together, off to the side, and Lydia has the blank expression of shock on her face. Just like she did when Peter came hurling out of the movie store at her, and she spent the next day zonked out on her mother’s meds. It is, quite possibly, the only look Lydia cannot pull off. Stiles likes her firm and in control and quietly manipulating everyone and everything. Being hot as hell and smarter than him, and using her powers for evil. The high school sense of evil, not _evil_ -evil. Because that would be bad. And they’d all be so screwed. And dead. Probably dead.

                _And_ , we’re focusing.

                Derek is inspecting Scott’s leg, because apparently he’s been shot and there was so much blood and mayhem and fear and panic that Stiles didn’t even _notice_. He’s a terrible friend. Like, seriously. This is so much worse than all the times Scott completely ignored him to make googley eyes at Allison. His best friend had been _shot_ , and Stiles hadn’t realized.

                So he walks—briskly…okay, more like sprints—over to them, eyes on Scott. There’s no pain on his face. Nothing like the all-consuming agony that had dominated Derek’s scowliness when he’d been shot by Kate. So that’s good, then. Scott may have been shot, but he’s not _poisoned_. He’s probably already healed. So, yayness there. Go team werewolf.

                “You okay, man?” Stiles asks Scott and then, without waiting for an answer, “Is he okay?” to Derek.

                “I’m fine. All healed and everything.” Scott reassures. Derek just kind of…hums in the affirmative. “What about Isaac?”

                Yes. Good question. What about Isaac? Isaac is still unconscious on the floor. Danny’s with him right now, just sitting next to him waiting for their youngest wolf’s shallow breathing to steady.

                Or stop.

                The ugly veins of poison have receded, completely disappeared, and Stiles can only assume that’s a good thing. He’s not bleeding anymore either. Which is definitely a good thing, right? Not-bleeding equals healing, right? Right.

                “Out loud.” Scott says, and Stiles realizes that his inner monologue has—not for the first time and likely not the last—become outer. Oops.

                “My bad. But I’m not wrong, right?” Stiles turns big, hopeful eyes at Derek. Because if any of them would know, it’s him. And if Derek doesn’t know, then no one in this room does. And that is not a comforting thought, so Stiles is going to continue assuming Derek has the answers. Because he has to.

                “He’ll wake soon.” Derek says and Stiles wishes the guy would crack an expression just this once. It’s kind of a big moment. Isaac’s alive. Isaac’s going to be fine. This is celebratory news, and the least Derek could do is manage to look pleased. He could smile or _something_. But he’s Derek, so he doesn’t.

                Stiles opens his mouth, and finds himself curiously out of words. What does one say when they find out that their friend is going to live? Oh, right. “Thank the moon!” Stiles shouts—because he’s going to take this moon-worship thing seriously. It can’t possible _hurt_ , right?—and launches himself at Scott and Derek to pull them both into an infamous Stilinski hug. Even Derek is not immune, allowing Stiles to remain wrapped around without even the pretense of struggle. It’s _that_ awesome.

                Stiles can hear Danny rushing to join in, and of course he is invited to the most awesome hug to ever exist. In fact, Stiles looks behind him for Jackson and Lydia, but they’re not coming. Probably because Lydia is still doing her best impression of a still life. But Danny is wrapping his arms around the group, encompassing the hug, and, yeah, Jackson should be here for this.

                “Group shuffle to Jackson?”

                “Detach and reform.” Danny corrects. And, all right, that’s probably a better idea. But Stiles’ was good too!

                As one they all disengage, take back their arms—except Derek who is an emotional eunuch and never had his hands out to begin with—and run over to glomp Jackson and Lydia—again except the their Alpha, who simply does not involve himself at all—and it all kinda dissolves into huggles and cuddles and snuggles from there.

                Until the first hitch in Isaac’s breathing echoes in preternaturally acute ears, and then everyone is moving to his side with a speed that no human could ever have achieved. Except Lydia who stays right where she is, sitting on the floor with her disconcerting blankness. Stiles will worry about that next. Right after he makes sure Isaac is fine.


	21. Wake Up

                Awareness returns quickly, suddenly. A sharp intake of breath, full and dry and easy. Isaac is bolting upright, hands on his chest, his perfectly fine chest. All healed up. Just another scar on a body that already has too many. Which is when Isaac realizes that his shirt’s been torn open, and every last one of them can see the scars. The years of abuse and torment and shame carelessly mapped out on his skin.

                It’s ugly, so _damn_ _ugly_ , and Isaac knows it.

                He waits for the recoil, the disgust, the sneering. The inevitable revulsion. His dad had hated his scars; proof of Isaac’s weakness, and his dad had always hated any sign of weakness. But it doesn’t come. His pack doesn’t turn away, avert their eyes, take their hands off his skin. In fact, they all rush in. There’s a lot of nose nuzzling and hands petting and no small amount of licking, which Isaac is surprisingly okay with. It feels good. Like home—true home, not four walls and roof and never-ending fear. Like family, real family the way they were before his mom died and Camden starting acting more and more like Dad and then Camden was just gone and never coming back.

                It feels like Pack.

                “I was shot.” The words feel weird on his tongue. There’s something like shock settling in. Because. He was. He was shot. In the chest. He should be dying. He should be _dead_. But he isn’t. He’s perfectly fine. And that’s kind of a big deal. He needs a second to wrap his head around it all. “I was _shot_.”

                “Don’t do it again.” Jackson growls angrily before licking a stripe of skin from Isaac’s collarbone up to his ear. And even though there had been some serious cuddling earlier, it’s still weird that Jackson fricking Whittemore—who has lived next door to him most of his life and has never once even pretended to give a shit about him—is being…affectionate? Is that the right word? Is this affection? Isaac isn’t sure. Maybe it’s just a pack, make sure the unit is still intact thing. Maybe he’s reading this wrong.

                “Seriously, not cool, man.” Stiles says in the process of burying his face in Isaac’s neck and nuzzling and sniffing and it tickles in a good way that makes something inside of him twist pleasantly.

                “I killed the shooter.” Scott proclaims with an edge of pride and a twist of shame, scraping his tongue across Isaac’s jaw, up his cheek, and over his eyebrow. The touch of tongue is rough and strange but oddly enjoyable. Like the way his mom used to kiss his temple, like something family does, even though it sounds like some sort of weird sexual kink.

                “Thank you?” It’s the only thing he can think of. What does one say when their brother wolf informs you that he’s killed the person who tried to kill you? Thank you doesn’t seem to really cover it.

                “Move.” Derek snarls, and the pack moves so their Alpha can reach his hand out and haul Isaac to his feet again. And then pull him into a brief, but crushing, hug. “Don’t you _dare_ leave us like that again.”

                Isaac nods furiously against Derek’s chest, and there are tears in his eyes that he’ll die—for real—before he ever lets fall. He’s learned the cost of tears is too high to be paid. Even if everything is different now, even if his father is dead. This is the man who killed him, Isaac isn’t about to push the limits of Derek’s patience. The consequences of disappointing Derek, Isaac fears, will be so much worse than anything his father ever did.

                “Good.” Derek hands him off to the pack for a massive group hug.

                And, all in all, it’s kind of absolutely, completely perfect.

     

* * *

 

                The guy, the fucking _kid_ , Lydia didn’t know the name of? Isaac? The one who got shot? Who, not twenty minutes ago, was bleeding out and dying? Yeah, that one. He’s getting up.

                Lydia blinks slowly. Shock starting to wear off a little in the face of the completely unbelievable. Lydia is not a doctor, but she knows that people shot in the chest do not just _get up_. Live, sure, maybe. With proper medical attention fast enough. But spitting gunpowder into a GSW is not proper medical attention, plopping him down on the floor in an abandoned rail station is not proper medical attention. This is not the way the world works. It just _isn’t_.

                Suddenly, Derek is handing over Isaac to everyone else—and she’ll work through the weirdness that is Jackson in the middle of a massive group hug and licking, _licking_ , another guy after she gets over the not-deadness of Isaac—and heading towards her. Fear washes away most of the lingering dissociation. This is her, this is now, and this is happening. It’s real, and it demands her immediate and full attention. Derek Hale, a suspected murderer covered in blood, is coming at her. And that is not something she can ignore in any way shape or form for any reason.

                Jackson and Stiles detach themselves from the group, follow a few steps behind Derek. It looks natural, them being there. Like they follow Derek all the time. Maybe they do. Obviously, this group knows each other, and knows each other well. And there is so much more going on in Jackson’s life that she didn’t know about than she did. That stings. A bit.

                “He’s not dead.” Lydia says when Derek’s in front of her, just to cut off whatever it is he was going to say.

                “No. He isn’t.” A casual shrug. Like it’s perfectly normal. Like all of this is normal.

                “You’re covered in blood. You _killed_ people.” Lydia remains on the offensive, doesn’t give Derek the chance to try and take over the discussion. She’s fairly certain that she wouldn’t like the topic very much. “Those people were in _pieces_.”

                “They tried to kill Isaac.” A furrowing of his brow. “They almost succeeded.”

                “So you ripped them apart?” That’s not a normal reaction.

                “Yes. They came to my home, unannounced and unwelcome, and they shot my friend, unprovoked. And they would have gladly put a bullet in every last one of us, just because of what we are. So, yes. I killed them. Brutally. Before they could kill us.”

                Stiles’ hand reaches out, hesitates, then rests gently on Derek’s shoulder. Jackson just looks at her with pleading eyes, begging her to understand.

                But she doesn’t. She doesn’t understand, because none of this makes _any_ sense. Why the hell were those guys there? What did Derek mean “because of what we are”? At what point did Beacon Hills become the sort of place where people wander around with guns? And what the hell does any of this have to do with Jackson?

                “Explain.” Lydia grits out between her teeth, eyes viciously stabbing Jackson so he knows better than to even try and lie to her. “Everything.”

                “Derek?” Jackson asks, and Lydia has never heard him sound so meek. So…submissive. Jackson Walden Whittemore hasn’t asked permission for _anything_ since he was thirteen. But there’s an unspoken question in that name, and he’s asking for permission now.

                Derek nods sharply, “I told you she was a part of this now.” And then he’s leaving, ducking into one of the train cars. Isaac and Scott share a look and trail after him.

                “Jackson Whittemore, you joined a mother- _freaking_ gang!” Lydia snaps. Because he did. He so did.

                “What? No!” Jackson looks confused.

                “Well. Kinda.” Stiles shrugs, and looks amused. Lydia glares at Jackson. He joined a gang and didn’t even realize it was a gang. Moron. “We prefer ‘pack’, if it’s all the same to you.”

                “Pack. My boyfriend is part of a pack.” Lydia processes this, and moves on. “Who the hell was that earlier? With the _shooting_ at high school students?”

                “Um. So…remember Allison? Your BBF? Scott’s girlfriend?” Stiles grins awkwardly. “Her family? Turns out, they’re all _completely_ insane.”

                “Allison’s family? What?”

                “My god, Stilinski. In order, you moron.” Jackson cuffs Stiles upside the head, but it lacks its usual wrath. “Look, Lyds. Long story short? Werewolves are real. Allison’s family hunts them. We’re all werewolves, so Allison’s family wants to kill us.”

                “Dude,” Danny pops up out of nowhere. “You are not a student of the simple break.”

                “Data _overload_.” Stiles agrees with a sage nod.

                Werewolves. Her boyfriend thinks he’s a werewolf. She’s in love with a _crazy_ person. Lydia opens her mouth to say something to that effect when Jackson’s eyes flash bright blue. Inhumanly blue. Danny’s flit to gold in response, and his sneer has far too many teeth with far too many points. The finger Jackson flips is clawed.

                And werewolves are real.

                The transition is that simple. Lydia doesn’t faint or scream or even gasp. She’s a woman of science, of _fact_. She believes what she can see, and she can see this. Can see Jackson change from everything she knows into something she doesn’t. And it explains _so_ _much_.

                “Those animal attacks last month, werewolves?”

                “Derek’s crazy uncle. We killed him.” Jackson. Eyes on the ground.

                “The reason Allison’s dad hates Scott so much?”

                “Werewolf, werewolf hunter. Werewolf dating werewolf hunter’s daughter. Also, there might be some feelings about Peter killing Kate. Maybe. Even though we were totally not on his team. At all. We set him on _fire_!” Stiles. Gesturing hands.

                “The guys with the guns?”

                “Argent hunters. They want to kill us.” Danny.  Simple shrug.

                “Why?”

                “Remember that bit where I said Derek’s uncle killed Allison’s Aunt Kate? Weelll, Papa Argent didn’t like that. So he called up everyone in the Argent Hunting phonebook and was like ’Hey, let’s declare war on a couple of sixteen year olds and their brooding twenty-two year old Alpha’. Even though they totally started it.” Stiles again.

                “Wait, I haven’t heard this bit. What’re you talking about?” Jackson. Intent focus on Stiles, hand absently sliding into hers. Huh. Some things never change, lycanthropy or not.

                “Kate Argent. Allison’s aunt? Completely cuckoo for cocoa puffs. She’s the bitch who started the Hale house fire. You know, the one that _killed them all_. So, understandably, Peter was a little miffed about the whole being burned alive and temporarily paralyzed thing. Then came the less understandable vicious murdering of everyone even slightly connected. And finally the, once again understandable, killing of Aunt Kate.

                “So, in summary: we totally wouldn’t be at war with the nutjobs, if nutjob the first hadn’t burned the house down around the Hales. Totally their fault.”

                “Do you get paid for every extra word you stuff into a single breath?” Danny asks, eyebrow quirked and lips smirking.

                “Nah. It’s just…”Stiles’ eyes dart around suspiciously before he leans closer. “This is a tv show. And I don’t get enough screen time, man. So I monologue whenever possible.”

                The three of them burst into laughter. They are laughing. They’re in the middle of a war—one Lydia can only assume they’re losing, if random hunters are walking around taking shots at them on their own turf—and they’re laughing at Stiles’ inability to filter? Really?

                How is this her life?

   

* * *

 

                Scott is gaping at the sight before him. Body armor. Military fatigues. _Guns_.

                Somehow he’d heard the word “war” and managed to overlook the obvious. Again. Because, of course, there would be guns. Of course, there would be more to this all than wolfing out and kicking ass when they were attacked. Of course, there would be a need for more protection than their healing naturally gave them—Isaac nearly died today because natural healing is not _enough_. Of course, they’d need to hide, amongst regular people, amongst the trees, anything to make them a harder target to hit. Of course, they’d need to be able to fight back from a distance.

                But Scott hadn’t realized. He thought it would all be out letting his control slip and his animal out, giving his wolf free reign to do what it had learned at Peter Hale’s knee. He hadn’t considered that there would be more to it than that. That he’d have to do more, _be_ more. Because Derek doesn’t need Scott to be an animal.

                He needs Scott to be a _soldier_.

                And Scott hadn’t realized.

                He can hear Jackson and Stiles and Danny filling Lydia in on all the details she’d been missing, and Scott wonders if that means that Derek is going to turn her too. Scott doesn’t know how he feels about that. Doesn’t know how he feels about any of this.

                It had been so simple to say yes, he wanted to stay. So easy to agree to all of this, all of it, without even once considering what it would mean.

                Derek is talking quietly to Isaac. Not so quietly that Scott couldn’t hear them if he wanted, there’s a not a lot that’s _that_ quiet these days. But he isn’t listening. He kinda really wants to see Allison. Needs her to ground him. But he’s covered in blood—and, Jesus, he’s still covered in _blood_ —and her father had publically tried to beat the shit out of him this morning.

                And so much, too much, has happened today. Just _one_ day.

                Something else Scott hadn’t pieced together when Derek said “war”. That is would be more than the isolated scrimmages with the Peter Hale and the rare hunter attack. He hadn’t realized just how… _constant_ this would be. Hadn’t realized that it would be one thing after another after another and then another before the next and the next. It’s never-ending and overwhelming and _crushing_.

                He wants Allison. He wants Allison like he wants to keep breathing.


	22. The Desire to Protect

                Gerard is pissed. Chris can’t blame him. He’d been reckless, attacking Scott like that. He may have put a convenient cover over it, but he still beat the snot out of a sixteen year old boy in front of a couple dozen witnesses. Not exactly the best start to covert war in Argent history.

                Chris is too old to be intimidated into submission by his father, but he’s soldier enough to be intimidated—still not into submission—by his general. He’s used to his father’s disappointment, Kate was always Gerard’s favorite in all things, but he has never failed his commanding officer. Until now, today. Until Scott McCall and Derek Hale made things complicated by involving his daughter and dragging her over the wrong side of the human-werewolf line.

                “What the _hell_ were you _thinking_?”

                Chris cannot explain. To explain his actions is to expose Allison’s. And he will die first. “I wasn’t. I just saw this kid that Derek had orphaned, and I lost it.”

                “You were trained better than that, Christopher.” Gerard reprimands. And he’s not wrong. Gerard had raised him and Kate to be impeccable hunters, and he knows better than to wildly strike out at one in front of witnesses. But it’s his daughter, it’s Allison. And she’s involved in with these monsters. These Biters of children and murderers of parents. And he can’t help her because she doesn’t want to be helped. All he can do is kill them, kill all of them, and hope that one day she can forgive him for saving her when she wanted him to let her drown.

                “I know. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

                “You’re damn right it won’t. Or I’ll turn you over to the city authorities myself, and you can watch this war end from behind bars where you can’t get in the way.”

                “Yessir.” It slips from his lips out of habit. Years of living as the head of his own family, his own hunting party, wiped away in the face of his father’s ire. Yes, sir, of course, sir, whatever you say, sir. The obedient little soldier still. Except he isn’t. Not really. He’s keeping secrets. Dangerous secrets that could affect the outcome of this war. Secrets he will never, ever tell.

                Chris nods and turns on his heel, walks out of his own damn office with dignity. He screwed up, he’s withholding critical intel, he’s not the son Gerard wanted. But he is still Christopher Anthony Argent, and this is still his house, and he’s still a general in this army.

                “Dad?”

                Chris freezes. Surprised that Allison is even talking to him right now. He may have forced her to stop seeing Scott, may have broken them up, but he knows the feelings are still there. And he had beaten up the would-be “love of her life” this morning. Anything more than an icy silence for days is a complete surprise.

                 “Yes?” It’s hesitant. He’s half expecting he to rip him a new one, to throw a classic teenage tantrum. He hopes not though. He hopes she’s smarter than that, smart enough to realize that declaring her loyalty to Scott in a house filled with hunters here to kill him will not end well.

                “I know the…family’s here and all, but I was wondering if some friends could come over tomorrow? I have a study group.”

                “Which friends?” He’s pretty sure she’s not stupid enough to bring the Wolves here. But he’s a firm believer in better safe than sorry.

                “Jackson, Lydia, and Danny.”

                Chris remembers Jackson. He’s a little mixed up in this werewolf business too. The memory of him begging on his knees for the Bite is still fresh. As is his help in fire-bombing Peter Hale. But he had been human then, and he hasn’t been seen with Scott or the other adolescent wolves roaming Beacon Hills. “I suppose it might be alright.”

                “Good. I already invited them.” And without another word, Allison goes back to her room.

                He thinks about following her, about sitting her down and explaining how the world really works to her, about making her understand that he’s doing this to protect her. He hadn’t been at first, he can admit that. He had allowed his grief to make his decisions for him, and this is the result. But it’s about protecting her now. Because the kind of werewolf that kills on a whim, that’s not the kind that can be allowed to live. Especially not one with as bloody and vengeful a past as Derek Hale. And Scott is just another casualty of war, just another person who ended up on the wrong side of the battle lines.

                He thinks about telling her all of this, and then he goes into the living room to listen to the men talk shop instead. He’d talk to her if he thought she would listen, but he knows she won’t.

      

* * *

 

                Burying bodies? Not fun. Stiles hadn’t thought it would be, on the rare occasion he’d thought about burying bodies at all, but this is a level of suck he’d previously been unfamiliar with. The enhanced strength and speed are making it a little better, the super-senses not so much. They haven’t started rotting or anything—it’s only been about forty minutes or so since they stopped being people and started being mulch—but he’s still handling severed body parts and housing blood off the lawn.

                Stiles Stilinski, the crime-scene cleaner-upper. His dad would so not be amused. But, Stiles doesn’t really have another option here. He can leave the rotting corpses out in the open and wait for Derek to wanted for murder, again, and maybe Scott too, or he can clean up this whole fucking mess and call it a day.

                Scott, Isaac, Danny, and Derek are helping. Jackson, as the only member of the pack not currently covered in blood, is grabbing a nice change of clothes for the rest of them. Lydia’s at the station still, with a few of the lycanthropy books Stiles has been keeping on hand since Peter sunk his fangs into Scott. He’s had a rather frequent need to research all things werewolf in the following months, after all, and he’d wanted to be prepared in case he should need them again. Lydia needs them more right now though, the way he had needed them at first. To answer the basic questions, before the madness of Peter’s spree had really sunk into his life and taken over every aspect of it.

                Stiles takes a moment to study his pack, now that he has time and none of them are potentially dying. Scott looks a little lost, looking at the carnage he had helped wreak. Stiles isn’t surprised. Scott is one of the sweetest, kindest guys in the world, even if he can be a bit self-centered. And he had killed people today. He had killed people, and relished in it. That’s not the kind of thing that someone is just magically okay with. Because the moment the killing stops affecting them, the moment they stop caring, well…then they’ll really be monsters, won’t they?

                Stiles’ll have to do something for his buddy, help make him feel just a little better. Maybe, somehow, manage to get him a nice secret date with Allison. Yeah. Scott’d like that. Allison too.

                Derek is being his usual sourwolf self. If the fact that his yard is pretty much a graveyard bothers him, he’s not letting it show. But that’s not surprising. Derek uses emotions the way most people use weapons. By which Stiles means that Derek doesn’t use emotions unless someone is dead, dying, about to be dying, or someone’s annoyed/angered him. That’s just how their Alpha _functions_.

                Danny seems oddly undisturbed by the whole ordeal. Not like, in shock disconnected or secretly a serial killer unaffected, just…this is my life and I’m used to it. Except, up until an hour ago, this _wasn’t_ his life. He didn’t know about any of this until yesterday, and he probably wasn’t often attacked by gun-toting, werewolf-killing hunters before either.

                And Stiles knows that Danny has always pretty much been a go with the flow, roll with the punches kind of dude, but wow. This is a level of rapid acceptance and chill for the record books. One, brief conversation to reiterate the major points, a snap decision, a good night’s sleep, and bam! Murder and mayhem are just part of the cool, calm, and collected package.

                Actually, that’s kind of terrifying, in Stiles personal opinion. And, maybe, something he should look into learning, because when he learned about werewolves, there was a fair bit of freaking out that he’d like to avoid in future _what the fuck_ situations. Because, let’s face it, he’s probably going have more than his fair share of those now that the supernatural has invaded his life and completely taken it the fuck over in a seriously permanent way.

                Stiles shakes off the weighted feeling of bad news yet to pass and focuses on the here and now and the bad news currently afflicting them via mutilated corpses and high school kids with superpowers.

                Isaac, in one of Derek’s shirts since his got torn to shreds during his emergency de-poisoning, is looking quite well for a kid who was dying an hour ago, or even for a kid who wasn’t. He’s not jumping around and frolicking through the woods, but Isaac is hardly the frolicking type even when he isn’t recently shot. He seems fine, physically, but this kid had been tortured by his father for years and—in this small town where everyone knows everyone else’s business—no one had ever looked twice. So, Isaac _looking_ fine and _being_ fine are not necessary the same thing.

                But Stiles still doesn’t really know Isaac; it’s only been a day and a half since he first spoke to the kid. He knows he’s a sophomore, his dad used to kick the crap out of him, he likes to read, he plays lacrosse, he’s a werewolf, and he arranged to have his father murdered. You know, the basics. But he doesn’t know what makes Isaac ticks, can’t read him the way he reads Scott or even Jackson or Derek.

                And he wants to. This guy is part of his Pack, part of his family. He _lives_ with him for moon’s sake. He should know him better than he does. Stiles wants to know his pack better than he knows himself. He wants to be able to tell if something is bugging them, or hurting them, or anything at all.

                He’s never been good at anything, really. His grades fluctuate with his mood and concentration, he’s never been near the first line on any sports team—barring that one time half the team was sick, he has the artistic talent of an ADHD squirrel on crack, and he ended up playing human hostage while Peter Hale was still roaming around. So, no, Stiles isn’t really good at anything.

                But this, Stiles really wants to be good at this.

            

* * *

 

                Jackson shifts uneasily in Macy’s. He can’t go to the others’ houses, because he’s not supposed to be on speaking terms with them, after all, and the hunters could be watching. It’s not something Derek said, just common fucking sense, and Jackson is tired of coming in first in the Shittiest Werewolf Competition. So  he’s going to go out of his way and help his pack without risking his cover as normal guy who wanted the Bite but didn’t get it. And that means shopping.

                It’s not a big deal. He drives a Porsche. His parents are loaded, and by default, so is Jackson. The platinum American express card in his wallet means he can get pretty much whatever he wants. His parents probably won’t even ask him about it. They’ll see “Macy’s” on the bill and assume he bought himself some new clothes. And if a few of those clothes aren’t actually for him, well, it’s not like anyone’s going to be fucking checking his bags.

                But he’s uncomfortable, still. He’s not used to this. Doing nice things for anyone but Lydia, and even then only when he’d screwed up or they were fighting or birthdays and anniversaries or, occasionally, some fucked up combination of the three. And, yet, here he is. Buying a hefty selection of clothing that could possibly be defined as an entire wardrobe for a bunch of teenaged misfits he happens to have fallen into pack with.

                It should have been simple enough. Four pairs of pants, four shirts, a package of socks. Shoes could be hosed off. But… He kind of wants to do this right. They’re, like, relying on him. Or some shit like that. He remembers the need, the warmth, the taste, of all of them together earlier when Isaac had needed them, when Isaac had been sht. He wants that again. To be needed just because he’s Jackson, not because he’s the superstar athlete or a good student or ridiculously good-looking. Because he’s Jackson, and he’s Pack.

                If he’s part of them, if he’s their Pack, then they’re _his_.

                And Jackson doesn’t want to disappoint them. He makes sure he’s the best at everything he does. He’s the perfect son, student, athlete. He wants to be the perfect Beta too, no matter what Derek says about perfection being unattainable. So he’s going to do this right. He’s going to pick out the perfect fucking clothes for his goddamned pack of adolescent screw-ups, and it’s going to be perfect. It is. Because Jackson will fucking _make_ it perfect.

                That’s kind of what he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t think that about Stiles! I love Stiles. He’s my favorite character. But it makes sense that he might have some self-esteem issuses. The girl he’s been crushing on since third grade barely acknowledges his existence, his brain/mouth don’t always do what he wants them to, he was kinda clumsy as a human, and he had no friends beside Scott. So, yeah. That happened.


	23. Plotting Plans

                The bodies have been taken care of and the pack returned to the rail station for a good twenty minutes by the time Jackson returns with clothes for the pack. Derek had clothes in the house, because he lives there, but the others had needed something not covered in grave dirt and blood to go home in. Because he keeps turning teenagers who live with their parents and have to explain things like bloody garments to them.

                He should probably rethink that plan, but he doesn’t really want to. The added complications with their families are worth it. Teenagers are young and strong and resilient. More likely to survive the Bite, less likely to freak out by the revelation that all the things that go bump in the night are real. Jackson produces several bags from the back of his Porsche, expression caught in perfect arrogance that Derek’s not buying.

                “You went shopping?” Scott asks, because sometimes Scott is a little slow.

                “I ‘hate’ you, remember? Be a bit weird if I suddenly showed up at your house, which they’re probably totally watching because you’re a known werewolf. Moron.” Jackson points out, validly, and Derek hums very quietly in approval. Jackson is thinking smart, thinking like pack, to protect himself and _all_ of them. Because he’s a part of them, now. Well and truly Pack. And it’s about damn time, because how could the stupid kid not realize that’s what he wanted the whole time? Family, true and unwavering. Pack, in its most basic definition. “So, here. There’s a bunch of shit you losers probably like.”

                And it’s true. The fact is that he has the sizes and styles to everyone’s liking. It’s more than he had needed to do to throw the hunters off. He could have bought anything, but he chose to pick things the pack would honestly _want_. Things they probably would have chosen for themselves had they been present to decide.

                “Take your pickings and meet me in the train before you change.” Derek orders, ducking into the train ahead of them. He’s going to have them armored before they leave here. Isaac could have been spared a lot of pain today if only Derek had done this sooner, if he had assumed that the war would be starting sooner rather than later, if he’d been smart enough to realize that killing William Lahey would antagonize the hunters into action before they were ready for them.

                It doesn’t take the pack long to wander in after him, holding bundles of clothing in their hands. Danny’s already pulled off his shirt, using it to idly wipe the grime from his face. Derek hasn’t had time to even think about getting water flowing into the station yet, but he’s starting to think he’ll have to find the time. This isn’t likely to be the last time he or the pack gets a little… _messy_ while dealing with hunters.

                “These,” Derek gestures to the pre-made war-packs. “are for you. Put the armor on right now.”

                The kids pretty much dive for the packs, eager to see the “goodies” he’s gotten them. Scott doesn’t; he’s already seen them, Derek remembers. He knows that Derek’s gifts aren’t for fun. They’re for survival.

                “Ugh.” Lydia scoffs when Jackson holds up a jacket to his chest. “I know a tailor, and you’re all going. No man of mine is going to be running around waging war in an improperly fitted uniform.”

                Derek blinks at her ready acceptance. She’s only known about them for a little over an hour and she’s already taking everything in stride. Good. He’s going to have to have a conversation with her soon. Ask her if she wants the Bite. Initiate her into the pack, even if she doesn’t. Because Pack is more than Wolves hunting and howling together, and humans have _always_ been an important part of the Hale Pack. Back when there was a Hale Pack, before it was just him and Laura trying to survive in the wake of devastation.

                Stiles pulls out one of the pistols and surprises everyone by immediately checking the magazine and chamber, and—finding both empty—effortlessly slamming a clip into place and loading the chamber. He double-checks the safety before looking up to a room of shocked faces. “Son of the _Sheriff_ , guys. Why are you surprised that gun safety was something I learned just about as soon as I could walk?”

                “That,” Lydia says eyeing Stiles, “was surprisingly hot.”

                Jackson growls as Stiles preens, and Derek really hopes he’s not going to have to settle a fucking mate dispute in the middle of a goddamned war. He is not prepared for that kind of shit, and they have way bigger problems than the fact that Jackson and Stiles are interested in the same girl. They’re going to need to work together, seamlessly, if they have any hope of surviving this, and there’s no chance of that happening if there’s bad blood between two of his betas. Especially these two betas; it would divide the pack. Scott and Isaac and Allison would inevitably take Stiles’ side, Danny would go with Jackson, and Lydia would go with whomever it is she chose—probably Jackson, but Derek can’t be sure. And then the fragile trust they’re all just beginning to build would fracture and break, and they would be pack bot not _Pack_. And then most of them would probably die.

                “Relax, honey.” Lydia rolls her eyes at Jackson. “I’m sure you’ll look just as good once Carlos Hathcock, the second coming, over there teaches you.”

                “Who?” Scott asks, expression confused.

                “He was a sniper in Vietnam, buddy. They wrote books about his awesomeness.” Stiles chips in with a grin.

                “Um.” Isaac interjects very, very quietly. “Should we just…get dressed now, here? Or, uh, is there, like, er, a bathroom or something?”

                Derek can smell the discomfort wafting off him, and he’s sure most of the others can as well.

                “We share a locker room.” Danny points out, casually dropping his pants. “And a _shower_.”

                “I’ve never actually changed in the locker room.” Isaac admits. “Or, well, not to the…skin. Not when there were other people.”

                Derek immediately catches on. He remembers the scars on Isaac with perfect and painful clarity. His beta has been so, so hurt in the past. “Lydia, give the boys a bit of privacy.”

                “Yes, sir, Mr. Alpha, sir.” Lydia mocks gently, but she obeys, ducking out of the train and leaving Derek with his betas.

                “No one will ever judge you in this pack, Isaac.” Derek rumbles firmly. Some packs do, some thrive on picking an omega and tormenting it until it fled and became a true Omega. But Derek isn’t going to have that in this pack. In _his_ pack. “And you have nothing to be ashamed of. So don’t be.”

                Isaac nods, though he seems more cowed than soothed. Derek clenches his teeth and wishes he was better at this. Being a leader, being an Alpha. Taking care of people, in all the ways they so often need taking care of. He doesn’t know how to settle old fears, calm ingrained insecurities.

                Stiles’ hand slips into Isaac’s the moment his shirt hits the floor. “Sourwolf’s right, you know?” Stiles shrugs. “We’re Pack. And there isn’t a single part of you that could make us not want you.”

                Then Jackson’s hand is on his shoulder, his smirk less smirky and more smiley. “Scars are total chick magnets, dude.” And he’s trying to be helpful, and the intent is enough to make up for the lack of finesse.

                “They mean you survived, Isaac.” Danny adds. “Should be proud of em, not ashamed.”

                “Everybody else already stole the good motivational lines, so I’mma hug you.” Scott says before pulling both Isaac and Stiles, and Jackson’s hand, into a hug.

                Derek has never felt such pride. These are a bunch of screwed up teenagers, but they’re stepping up. They’re become Pack, filling in the gaps where the Alpha alone, where _Derek_ , isn’t enough.

                It’s the most beautiful fucking thing he’s seen since his home went up in flames.

              

* * *

 

                Getting into the armor is a difficult mess of flailing limbs and confusion. It’s heavier than Stiles had expected—used to cotton and denim and not much else. Scott’s struggling next to him, mixing up latches and buckles left and right, and Stiles nearly swallows his own tongue when Jackson, with half his chest piece flapping unfastened, reaches over and just fixes it. Doesn’t say anything, no mocking comments or snarked insults, just a few quick motions.

                It makes Stiles grin like an idiot, and he likes it. The wolf in him practically purrs at the silent demonstration of Pack, so, screw it. Stiles ignores the breast plate he hasn’t even started on and helps Jackson do up the other side of his chest piece. Jackson’s eyebrows rise, and Stiles can see the arrogant putdown waiting on his tongue, but he doesn’t say it. And when Stiles is finished, Jackson’s hand brushes his elbow in what may just be, maybe, a silent thank you.

                Isaac bounds over to him, Stiles’ own breast piece in his hands and a shy smile on his face. Oh. Is this going to be a thing now? Are they going to be helping each other get dressed from now as pack bonding? Cause that’s gonna raise some awkward ass questions in the locker room tomorrow. But a part of Stiles, a distinctly wolfy part, doesn’t mind. In fact, the humany part isn’t all that bothered either. This is pack, pack helps each other. This is _good_.

                Isaac buckles him in, and unlike Jackson, Stiles uses his words to express his gratitude. “Thanks, Isaac. Would have been a bitch getting the left side.”

                “Do me?” Shy and hesitant and barely audible to the human ear.

                “Will do.” Stiles spins a finger idly and Isaac turns around so Stiles can work on the fastenings. Jackson is doing up Danny’s, and it feels kind of important. Like a firm step in the very right direction for the pack. And it was Jackson—Jackson who’d wanted to be Omega, who hadn’t wanted the pack at all—who had started it all.

                Will wonders never cease?

                “Listen up.” Derek says when they’re all fully armored and at least partially dressed. Lydia slips in without a word. She must have been waiting right outside, listening in for her cue to come back in. “Jackson, Danny, Lydia, you are never to go to the house after today. The hunters don’t know about you yet, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

                “So we’re pack, but we can’t be with the pack?” Jackson asks sounding oddly…wounded?

                “Just for now.” Derek says calmly. “Just until Stiles, Scott, and Isaac can spread the word around the lacrosse team about how their recent improvements are a result of extra training with me.”

                “You used my idea!” Stiles fist pumps triumphantly. Because Derek totally uses his plans. Strategy is absolutely going to be his thing. “And, Jackson, you know Scott and I are full of crap, because you know we’re wolves, right? So you order all of second line to attend and make it optional for first line. Because you want the Bite, and you haven’t got it yet.”

                “Yes.” Derek says, and Stiles can hear a distinct _now shut up_ beneath the word. “Danny will go as well because he is your best friend, and Lydia always watches you practice, so this will be no different.”

                “And Scott, Isaac, and I will go, of course, because we’re your betas and clearly this is part of your wolfy agenda to Bite yourself an army.” Stiles does not, in fact, shut up. Mostly because he was never very good at that to start with.

                “Yes.” There’s an edge of irritation creeping into the alpha’s tone now, but not a lot, so Stiles isn’t worried. He talks, it’s what he does, and the pack—Derek included—will just have to get used to it because Stiles is Stiles and he doesn’t know how to be anyone else.

                “ _Are_ you planning on turning the whole team? Cause I’m telling you right now, Greenburg would be a shitty Wolf. And just horrid pack.” Jackson says. There’s something in his voice Stiles can’t quite place.

                “Scott said the same thing about you.” Derek rumbles, and Jackson definitely looks wounded this time, even though he had to have already known it. “Look how wrong he was.” Jackson puffs up a bit at that, no surprise there, him being the perfectionist, elitist, occasional asshole he is. But, hey, maybe there’s nothing wrong with validating the guy every once in a while. He has been acting less douchey than before, and he’d bought them all these spiffy new threads that they all actually like instead of just whatever he happened to grab.

                “But, no.” Derek adds. “I don’t plan on biting the whole team. I probably won’t bite any of them at all, actually. But we need an excuse for you to be at my house for wolf training that won’t immediately out you as pack.”

                “Is this new practice going to be before or after Allison’s study group that probably isn’t actually a study group?” Lydia brings up, and oh, yeah. Stiles had forgotten about that.

                “Allison’s…” Derek’s eyes lock onto his, and Stiles is a little offended that Derek is automatically assuming this is his idea. Because it isn’t, thank you very much, he just put a little polish on Allison’s plan and helped put it into motion. It’s not the same thing. “Explain.”

                “So, Allison was talking to me at lunch, and she was like ‘my dad has all these files and plans and stuff in his office that I think you guys might want to look at.’ And I was like ‘yeah, probably. Can you get in there?’ and she was like, ‘I’ll need a distraction. Could Jackson and Danny and Lydia come over while I perform espionage?’ and I was like ‘hey, guys, wanna help play super-secret double agents with Allison?’ and they were like ‘kay.’ Except Lydia, who we had Allison lie to and thought it was an actual study group until probably around the time she saw Isaac get shot and we told her that we’re all werewolves and she just accepted that because she’s made of science and beauty and win.”

                “Stilinski,” Jackson barks. “Breathe.”

                “Right.” Stiles draws in a massive breath, just now realizing how long that ramble went on. “Sorry.”

                “You want to send my betas and a human into enemy territory.” It should be a question, but Derek makes it a flat statement.

                “Uh, maybe?” Stiles is realizing that this is the sort of thing that he probably should have mentioned, gotten _permission_ for, before he set things in motion. Because that’s how pack works, some times. During war times. He’s left his commander-in-chief out of the loop, and he shouldn’t have.

                “Is there an actual plan, or were you just going to throw them at the Argents and hope none of them realized there was a group of werewolves in their living room?”

                “Well, nothing quite so concrete. More of a throw two attractive, not known werewolf males at Allison’s parents and hope they’re too busy with Allison’s potential rebounds to notice that Allison isn’t actually in the room.”

                “That’s a terrible plan.” That, surprisingly, isn’t Derek. It’s Lydia. And that kind of stings a bit. Derek, he mostly expects it. His friends, he can understand it. But absolutely no one wants to be called out by their crush, even if it’s a crush that’s pretty much completely in love with someone else and will never ever look at you like she looks at him. He still doesn’t want her to see all the things he’s not so very good at.

                “It’s a work in progress.” Sheepish mumbled words, hand on the back of his neck, eyes on the ground.

                “It’s a train wreck waiting to happen. Jackson’s dating me, so he’s not a potential rebound. And Danny’s gay, in case that slipped your mind, so he’s not exactly up for being her new sex poodle either.”

                Scott whimpers a little at that. Like he’s seriously concerned that Allison is looking for a new sex poodle. Because, clearly, you had to not be a part of their relationship to see that she was a one wolf kind of girl, and so very not in the market for a boyfriend that wasn’t one Scott Anthony McCall. Girl’s fighting against her family, literally, to protect him. So they can be together. Dude needs to calm his freakishly possessive tits and realize that ain’t _nothing_ getting in the way of his big, angsty lovefest.

                “Well, yes.” Because, yeah, Stiles did, in fact, know that. But, he was kind of hoping the Argents didn’t.

                “So. I’ll distract the crazy parents with my incredible people-skills that are occasionally traumatizing, and Jackson will go with Allison so he can keep look-out while _pretending_ to be sneaking around on me.” A pointed glare at Jackson tells Stiles that she still remembers Jackson’s attempted seduction of the other girl, and she is not amused. Jackson looks all chastised and helpless, and Stiles kinda really loves seeing Lydia cut him down without even having to say a word. “And Danny can be beautiful eye-candy who is actually there to study. And hack into their computer.”

                “You are a genius. An evil genius who frightens me.” Stiles mouth speaks before his brain has properly processed the words. He wants to shove them back down his throat, lest Lydia turn that conniving brilliance on him and completely decimates him.

                But she just smiles smugly. “I know.”

 


	24. The Things We Do for Love

                Scott knows that people think he’s stupid. And he is, a little. Sometimes. It takes him longer to see the things everyone else had put together ages ago. But he’s not a complete potato, despite what his report card might say, and he knows this is monumentally stupid beyond belief. Reckless and rash to a brand new level of reckless and rash. He just doesn’t _care_.

                He needs this. He needs _her_.

                It only takes the gentlest tapping against the glass pane to bring Allison to the window, throwing it open. “Scott?” Elation. “What’re you doing here?” Confusion. But _happy_ confusion. He wonders if she’ll still be happy to see him after he tells her what he did. If she’ll turn away from him, call him the monster that her family thinks he is—that he’s proven himself to be.

                “I needed to see you.”

                “What’s wrong?”

                “I killed people today. I _killed_ people.” He can’t look at her. Can’t bring himself to watch the disappoint he’s sure is in her eyes. She never asked for this, to date a monster. She fell for Scott McCall, normal guy who plays lacrosse, and ended up with Scott McCall, werewolf soldier who kills people. And it isn’t _fair_ because all Scott has ever wanted to be was that normal guy and now he never can be.

                Allison, Allison _deserves_ that. Deserves a normal guy she can date and fall in love with without having to worry about whether or not he’s going to die at her family’s hand. And it kills Scott that he can’t give her that, can’t be what she deserves.

                “What happened?”

                “They shot Isaac, and I killed them.” the flash of anger and concern spreads across her face, and he’s a moron for saying it like that. God, what is wrong with him? That he can’t even do this right? Confess his sins to the only person he never wants to know them? “No, no, no. He’s okay. He’s fine. We fixed him. But he was hurt, and they hurt him, and I killed them. Not the Wolf, _me_. And I _liked_ it.”

                “It’s okay. You did the right thing.”

                “Did I? Because I’m not so sure. They deserved it, they _did_ , but who the hell am I to play executioner? Who am I to end lives?” He spent so long fighting against this, against Peter’s kill-them-all games, against being a monster. And all it took was a single gunshot to a boy he hardly knows to have him changing his stance completely.

                “A good friend, a loyal friend. I would have done exactly the same thing, Scott. If I had been there, I’d have killed them too.”

                “I didn’t want to be this person, Allison. I didn’t want to kill people. I never wanted to be a goddamned werewolf in the first place. All I’ve ever wanted was to be a normal guy. Your normal guy.” And Scott isn’t sure he can ever be that guy again. Even if the moon lost its sway over him, if he woke up tomorrow and wasn’t a werewolf anymore, he still wouldn’t be who he was. Who she fell in love with. Because he’s different now. He doesn’t want to be, but he _is_.

                “I don’t want you to be normal; I want you to be _alive_.” Allison’s voice brokers no room for argument, and this is what he’d needed. To draw his strength from hers. “I just want you, Scott. Werewolf or human, killer or not, sinner or saint. Just _you_. Because I love you.”

                “I love you too. So much, Allison. So, so much.”

                “Then do what you have to survive. Don’t you dare die on me.”

                “Okay. Okay.”

               

* * *

 

                Stiles is reading through “History’s Greatest Battles” and “The Art of War” and the notes Allison had given him on the Argent Army, all at once because his attention span does _not_ allow for calm, sedate reading. He has to cross-reference and find patterns and connections and completely overload his brain with data. It’s his process, okay? It’s how he gets shit done. The straight A’s he’s been pulling since sixth grade—despite his inability to write even a single essay on the assigned topic—seem to indicate that it works for him.

                “Um.” Isaac starts, and Stiles redirects his attention immediately. Isaac is always painfully quiet, like he’s afraid that Stiles or his dad will turn on him if he so much as breathes loudly. Stiles wants to make it perfectly clear that if he wants to speak, he’ll be heard. “Do you think Derek could get me a shotgun?”

                “Probably. Our fearless, furry leader seems really good at getting his hands on things that he probably shouldn’t. I suspect a werewolf conspiracy-slash-black-market thing. You want one?”

                “Camden, my brother, uh. Well, he used to take me hunting before he died.” Isaac trails off into silence and Stiles’ heart hurts for the kid. He knows what it’s like to lose someone, and Isaac just _keeps_ losing them.

                “I’ll ask Derek.” Stiles smiles softly.

                “Thanks.” Isaac lowers his eyes back to his textbook, because he still studies like anything less than a perfect score will get him beat again. Stiles kind of want to ask him questions about this older brother, but he knows better than to push this topic. Isaac will talk about it when he’s ready, if he ever is. Trying to pry information out of him isn’t going to accomplish anything.

                _Could you get a shotgun?_ ~~Stiles

                _Why_ ~~Sourwolf

                _Because Isaac has experience with shotguns, and he wants one_ ~~Stiles

                _Shotguns are impractical at this point. Too_ _obvious_ ~~Sourwolf

                _We’ll keep it in my room/jeep_ ~~Stiles

                _No_ ~~Sourwolf

                _Derek. Isaac was shot today. He freaked out in class today. The gun is a reminder of his DEAD brother taking him hunting, and it’s *useful*. Get him the damn gun_ ~~Stiles.

                Derek doesn’t respond for a long time after that, but Stiles is assuming that he won the argument. Mostly because if he hadn’t Derek would have fired back his retort immediately.

                _I’m the Alpha. You follow my orders, not the other way around_ ~~Sourwolf

                _But you’ll get it for him anyways_ ~~Stiles

                _I’ll see what I can do_ ~~Sourwolf

                _Thank you_ ~~Stiles

                Derek doesn’t answer that one, not that Stiles is really expecting him to. He turns his eyes back to his studies, scribbling notes and half-formed ideas into a notebook labeled “Mythos: Honor and Magic Strategies” to convince anyone who happens to stumble across it that it’s for a MMORPG and not, you know, how he plans to survive for the next however-long this war goes on for.

                He makes sure to tag the corner of the page with a reminder to look into how to go about adding a shotgun into the mix and how incorporating the weapon will change his preconceived set-ups. He doesn’t have a book on firearms—because he hadn’t thought about them using guns, just the hunters—and he’s pretty sure he can’t check one out with all the other books he took out a few days ago without sending up some big red flags. Nothing says “potential school shooter” like books about war, gangs, medicine, and guns in the hands of an awkward and nerdy ADHD junior whose father is a sheriff and thus has access to weaponry.

                Maybe he’ll have Scott pick some up. Or Isaac. He did say he liked the library. Either way, he’ll google it up first and get the basics before he starts sending people out on book runs. He has to work his way through the ones he already has before he starts worrying about getting more. God, it’s going to take him ages to muddle through all the medical texts waiting in a pile next to his desk. Stiles is really not looking forward to the dry information data-dump sloughing through those is going to be. But he’ll do it. If it’ll help keep his Pack safe, even just a little bit, Stiles will do just about anything.

               

* * *

 

                Danny Mahealani’s bedroom looks more like an evil lair than he’d been planning when he was twelve and told he could decorate it any way he wanted. But he’d been twelve, and just starting to really hit his stride with all things technological, and he thought that was the coolest thing ever in the history of all things. So that’s how he did his room.

                Slate gray walls embellished with silvery trimming. Massive computer desk housing not one or two or even three, but four top-of-the-line pcs. His sleek blue MacBook, all his special software hidden in its oh-so-innocent looking hard-drive.  Cables line the floor and the walls, connecting all the computers into, well, everything of his. And a few things that _aren’t_ his.

                Danny isn’t sure what he’s doing. No. Wait. That’s not right. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s hacking into Beacon Hills security camera feeds. There aren’t many, because a small town like Beacon Hills has a crime rate lower than Lydia’s GPA, but there are a few around places like the bank and the hospital.

                It’s the _why_ that’s escaping him at the moment.

                He’s on probation. His parents had talked him out of trouble—youthful indiscretion, harmless—after he’d hacked the FBI’s most wanted for revenge against his first douchebag ex-boyfriend. But this…he’s not a stupid thirteen year old boy with more skills than brains anymore. This isn’t a prank he can blame on a broken heart. This is thoroughly thought out, well-executed, and long-term. This is serious fucking shit, and he could go to prison for it.

                But…he’s Pack now, and he’s starting to get what that means. It’s Stiles making werewolf approved dietary plans with their favorites, and Derek ripping a man apart for daring to lay a hand on one of them, and the all-consuming fear-guilt-rage when one of them is hurt.

                He’s Pack. And he at war, and this probably won’t help, probably won’t do anything at all, but it’s something he can do. The only thing he can do right now because he’s only been Wolf for a few days and he’s in hopelessly over his head.

                Danny took the Bite for Jackson, to help save _Jackson_. He didn’t give a damn about Scott or Stiles, didn’t even know who Isaac and Derek were. Didn’t care to. All he knew was his best friend needed him to do this, and that was enough. But it’s more than that now. He’s been willing to do damn near anything for Jackson since he was six, but it’s not just about Jackson anymore. Because Jacks is still his best friend, his brother in every way except blood and bone, but he’s Pack too. And so are the others, and that means he’ll do damn near anything for them too.

                Including, apparently, risking his cute, gay ass in a federal penitentiary on the off chance that doing this, any of this, will actually make a difference.

                The video feeds pop up on one of his monitors, as clear as the cheap cameras are capable. The old joystick commandeered from his father’s old game-station—stripped down, rebuilt for Danny’s purposes, and wired into the machine—gives him the ability to move the stupid things too. Scan the area beyond the front doors. That’s better than he expected.

                Good. He’ll write down all the license plates he sees at Allison’ house tomorrow, write a program to send him an alert when any of them cross into frame. It probably won’t matter much; he doubts the hunters are going to being anything at the bank or hospital besides, you know going to the bank or hospital, but…better safe than sorry. And Scott’s mom is a nurse there. He’ll add her face to the software, make sure they can keep an eye on her. Keep her safe since the Argents already know about Scott.

                Danny cracks his neck and stretches his fingers. He’d missed this. Being a good boy, keeping his nose clean, being so very careful not to do anything that might catch anyone’s eye or raise any flags. But he’s good at this, he _loves_ this. His eyes dart to the clock. A few hours have gone by. He’s lost a bit of his edge, but he’s going to get it back. He’ll get so good, so fast, so discrete he’ll make Anonymous look like amateur hour.

                Danny heads over to his closet, pulls out the box of things he was supposed to throw away after his arrest but couldn’t bring himself to. He’s going to need them now. There’s a couple of older keystroke loggers he’ll set up in the Argents’ place tomorrow. He wishes he had newer product on hand, but this is what he has, so he’ll make it work. Maybe tweak the programming a bit tonight, see what he can do manually to improve the devices.

                He’s got an old phone spoofer buried in there too. He’ll show Stilinski how to use it during chemistry tomorrow and send him off to McCall’s with it. Then the guy can call Allison whenever he wants and her phone won’t rat them out to her parents. Much easier than having them and/or Stiles operate as their personal messenger doves.

                He’ll have to pick up a few more of them for the rest of the Pack, as well. Since he, Jackson, and Lydia aren’t supposed to be in communication with any of the others, and Danny doesn’t doubt for a second that there’s a hunter with a basic set of hacking skills prepared to hack into their phone records and see if they’re having secret phone calls. With the right spoofers and a few hours of him cobbling together the right hardware and software and programming, they’ll never know. Because Danny is fucking good at what he does, and even though he hasn’t done it for a while, and this is _exactly_ what he does.


	25. The Art of Mourning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Raise your hand if you finally figured out AO3's formatting, thus getting rid of unnecessary paragraph indents. That's right this guy did.  
> 

It feels weird, being back at school. Isaac shifts uncomfortably, eyes darting from face to face; trying to see if there’s a threat here. He was shot yesterday. He was shot in the chest less than twenty-four hours ago, he was bleeding out and _dying_ , and now he’s walking to his locker like it never fucking happened. The only proof that it had the tiny pinprick of an already healing scar on his skin. It’ll fade soon, Derek had said. Disappear completely in a few weeks or months because werewolves don’t permanently scar, not even from wolfsbane.

Absently, Isaac runs his hand over it. He can feel the tiny bubble of raised skin beneath the cotton of his shirt, but it doesn’t hurt. _He_ doesn’t hurt. He used to come to class aching from his father’s fists, bruises from tumbling down the stairs, jagged wounds on his fists from trying—futilely, always futilely—to get _out_. But he isn’t bruised now, no purple-black blemishes beneath his clothing, no crusty-garnet scabs pulling when he moves.

And he’s not _hungry_. Isaac had always been hungry before. Because sometimes his father didn’t want to spend the money to feed his worthless son who couldn’t do anything right. Because he wasn’t allowed to eat while in the freezer. Because withholding food made it easier to hit him, made it harder for him to fight back, made his struggles to get out painful and ineffective, made him slow and dizzy and compliant. But he’d eaten a good dinner the night before—healthy and filling and no one had said anything at all when he had quietly asked for seconds and thirds—and a full breakfast this morning—pancakes and eggs and bacon and toast that no one had threatened to take away from him because it was too much and he didn’t _deserve_ it.

Isaac doesn’t hurt, and he isn’t hungry, and he is not alone. He will never have to be alone again.

Stiles is with him. Isaac likes Stiles. Stiles is loud and energetic, and nobody ever tells him to shut up. Well, that’s not true. Everyone tells Stiles to shut up. All the time. But nobody says it like they mean it, like they’ll hurt him if he doesn’t. Which is good because Stiles never, ever does. He’s talking right now, to Scott. About the English homework Scott, apparently, didn’t do.

Isaac likes Scott too. Scott always seems to be trying to do the right thing, even when it’s a bad thing. Scott had killed the man who had given Isaac his newest scar, sunk in his teeth and ripped him apart. There’s a kind of gratitude in that, in knowing that Scott—and the others of course, _of course_ —would protect him if he could and avenge him if he couldn’t. Nobody’s been on Isaac’s side since Mom died and Dad got mean and Camden shipped out to the war and never came back again. It means something that Scott had killed for him, for the Pack in general, but for _him_ specifically.

Isaac’s eyes wander over to Jackson and Lydia and Allison and Danny. The Pack they’re not allowed to talk to during the day. To keep them safe. Isaac likes them too. Danny had stood over him after he’d been shot, Stiles said. Had stood guard with bared fangs and pointed claws that had just dared someone to try and touch him when he was helpless. Isaac has been helpless his whole life, and no one has ever even tried to offer him protection; not even amden in Camden was around to try. Jackson had bought him—again the whole pack, really, but also _him_ —new clothes when his were ripped and torn and bloody, and had put his hand on his shoulder when he was embarrassed and ashamed and told him not to be, without ever actually saying it. Lydia had been there when he was shot, hadn’t run out and abandoned them when she could have or outed them to the Argents. That wasn’t for him, he knows. That was about Jackson and maybe Danny to a lesser extent, and Scott and Stiles to an even lesser extent that that.  She doesn’t _know_ him, but she’s helping them and she hadn’t been unkind to him.

And Allison. Allison who wanted to help them, despite who her family was. Allison who is going to help them fight and kill people with her last name and her blood. Allison, whose hand he’d held while he read anguish in her eyes. A different type of anguish than the kind Isaac is sure she had seen so clearly in his own, but similar. Because Isaac had shed family blood for the Pack, too, if in a completely different way. It meant he was like her, or she was like him, and it made them pack. Not because Scott loved her, or because Stiles trusted her, or even because Derek was the Alpha and he’d said she was. She was Pack to Isaac because they were different and they were the same, and that maybe meant something.

The smell of strawberries and lavender brushes his nose, the cloying taste of sick tickles at the back of his throat, and Isaac looks away from the other half of the pack. Erica is walking in. She looks, well, like it’s not a good day. Her arms wrapped around herself, eyes downcast, nervous little ticks in her heart when he listens close enough. It makes something in his stomach twist.

He likes Erica. She was always nice to him at the library. And she’s beautiful when she smiles. She had smiled at him a lot, in the library, when she thought he wasn’t looking and couldn’t see; he had always been looking. He hadn’t let her see, though, because it would have cruel of him. To let her see him seeing her, and give her hope that he’d smile back and they would do the things that other kids—normal kids—their age did.

Isaac couldn’t do those things, even though he wanted to, with her. He wasn’t allowed to be out of the house after five; he’d had to be home to make his dad dinner. Wasn’t allowed out at all to anywhere but the library and school. He’d never been able to smile at her and say he wanted to take her out, hold her hand while they walked to dinner or a movie or anything at all. He wouldn’t have been able to go.

He could do them now, if he wanted. If she wanted. He could ask her out; see if those smiles he wasn’t supposed to see meant what he thought they did. He isn’t confined within the house at the Stilinskis’. He isn’t obligated to only go to school and library and never anywhere else. He doesn’t have to be home to make dinner—the sheriff or Stiles usually do that, or order out, or pick something up—he doesn’t have to stay once he’s there. He could smile at Erica and let her see it. He could ask her to go to the movies, or bowling, or out to eat, whatever she wanted, and if she said yes, he could take her.

Only he still can’t do any of that. Because he’s a werewolf and there are hunters in town. And he doesn’t want them to see him with Erica and think she’s a werewolf too. He doesn’t even want to think about her getting hurt because of him.

Isaac looks away before she notices he was ever looking at all; he has a lot of practice at that.

“You okay, Isaac?” Scoot asks, eyes soft and considering. Abstractly, Isaac realizes that Stiles had stopped talking a little while ago, had maybe asked him a question, and he’d been too busy in his own head to notice.

“Yeah, yeah. No, I’m fine.”  Isaac murmurs, head lowering out of habit, eyes tracing the cracks in the floor. He should know better than trying to lie, he knows that they can hear the little stutter in his heartbeat. But it’s habit, instinct, to lie when asked that question. To pretend until he can make it true, or as true as it ever was before the Bite.

“You sure?” Stiles has his head cocked to the side, listening.

“It’s not important.” Isaac shrugs, because in comparison to murder and mayhem, his girl problems are nothing at all.

Erica shuffles past them then, the scent of her and sick and copper-blood coating the back of his throat, and Isaac whimpers before he can swallow the sound. Both Stiles and Scott have obviously caught the scent, concern flashing across their faces as their eyes dart to Erica.

Just as she seizes.

Isaac reaches out without thinking about it, catching her as she falls. She writhes in his arms, and Isaac whimpers again without meaning to. He’s seen her have a seizure before, from a distance. She’s in a lot of his classes and he spends hours at her place of employment; he’s seen her have a seizure before.

He’s never felt one though.

He rolls her carefully onto her side, still holding her because he can’t remember how to let go. Stiles is rattling off facts he’d probably accidently learned from the internet one night forever ago, but the words are passing around Isaac without a hint of impact. His brain is screaming at him, just screaming, “Turn her on her side and don’t put anything in her mouth!” It’s the only thing he knows for sure, he remembers seeing it, hearing it, before. He hopes that this seizure doesn’t end like that one had;  not because he’s worried about her peeing on him—though that’s not exactly something he’s looking forward to—but because he knows it would upset her. Shame her.

It isn’t her fault, that her brain and her body don’t work the way most peoples’ do. She shouldn’t have to be ashamed.

When it’s passed and Erica opens her eyes again, Isaac smiles at her. A small, little, hesitant thing. It’s the first time he’s let her catch him when it’s real, and he wishes the circumstances were different. Better. He wants it to be something he lets slip out at the library check-out or after she’s said something funny and snide beneath her breath in class. He doesn’t want it to be something she associates with her pain and fear and humiliation.

She blushes, eyes darting away from his, before slowly getting up without a word.

“Do you need help?” Scott asks, his puppy eyes out in full-force, brimming with so much good-intention Isaac can nearly feel it in the air around them.

“No. No, I’ll just go to the nurse’s.”

“I’ll, um, I mean, if you want...I’ll go with you.” Isaac tries to sound sure and confident, but he can’t because maybe he’d misinterpreted everything. Maybe she smiled at him  and looked at him when he wasn’t looking because he hadn’t laughed when everyone else had. Because he never made fun of her or ignored her or did any of the other stupid things lots of other morons in their class had. Maybe that’s all it was, and he’s not allowed to do things like hold her through a seizure or offer to walk her to the nurse. Or worse, what if she thinks he thinks she’s a helpless little girl that can’t take care of herself and she hates him for it.

Erica doesn’t says anything though, just keeps her head down and starts off, and Isaac isn’t sure if it’s a brush off or tacit permission to come along.

He falters for a moment or two, trying to figure out the right answer, before deciding “screw it” for once in his life. The consequences here aren’t horrible. If Erica wants to be left alone, he just has to apologize. This doesn’t end with him locked in a freezer for hours or days, with him cooking food for his dad that he won’t be allowed to eat, with him trying not to cry when the blows rain down. This is different, so Isaac needs to be different to.

He trots to her elbow, careful of her space. He understands how important space is. Doesn’t like it when people weasel into his uninvited—pack notwithstanding; they are all pretty much invited at any and all times because that’s something he needs and they need it too—he’s not going to turn around and do it to her. She doesn’t say anything, still, but her heartbeat picks up a little. He’s not sure if it’s a good thing or not; a lot of things make a person’s heart rate increase. Some of them are bad and some of them are good, and Isaac doesn’t know which one this is.

“Isaac Lahey?”

 

* * *

 

Marin Morrell flips through the file on her desk carefully. Isaac Daniel Lahey, sophomore, fifteen. Steady grades, holding at low B’s and high C’s with the occasional D. Second string lacrosse player. No attitude problems, though he doesn’t seem to participate in class very much.

His father had just died. His father had died two days ago, and Isaac had run out of his English class and skipped every class after that. He had managed to show up for his afternoon lacrosse practice. This could be the start of a downward spiral, one she’s seen before. A child loses one parent, or both, and suddenly things like classes stop being a priority. The kid feels lost and aimless, and it shows. Behavior problems crop up where they had been absent or become more prevalent, classes are cut, homework is ignored. They become violent or, worse, despondent. Their social circles change, usually for the worse. They start using drugs, or cutting, or stop eating.

Marin doesn’t want to see that happen to Isaac. He seems like he’s a good kid, from what she’s read, if quiet. She sees that he’s currently staying with the Sheriff, and that’s good, at least. Better than the foster system at any rate. Much better. But while his new home will probably mitigate a lot of the problematic symptoms, it won’t help Isaac actually learn to deal with the fact that he is an orphan; that everyone he loves is dead and he’s still alive.

Marin is on her way to slip a note into the assistant principal’s announcements asking Isaac to report to her office when she happens to run into the boy himself. He’s walking with, or at least, _near_ Erica Reyes.

“Isaac Lahey?”

“Yes?” He turns with something like dread on his face before he wipes the emotion away.

“Can I have a word with you in my office?”

“Uh…” Isaac’s eyes start looking around nervously, like he thinks he’s in trouble and needs someone to save him. In her peripheral vision, Marin notices Stiles Stilinski and Scott McCall look their way and begin to move towards them. And, oddly, Jackson Whittemore, Lydia Martin, and Danny Mahealani look over as well before shifting so they have a clear line of sight on Isaac, her, and the two boys approaching with feigned nonchalance. 

“Actually, Isaac was helping me to the nurse’s office.” Erica interrupts, eyes down, teeth sinking into her bottom lip. “I, uh, I seized.”

“Oh.” Marin doesn’t want to send Erica off alone after that if she can help it, but she really wants to talk to Isaac about his dad, about grief. “Alright. Isaac, come see me after.”

Stiles and Scott slow their approach before stopping completely, turning to talk to one another in whispers. Jackson, Lydia, and Danny are still watching warily; no, not warily, predatorily. Rachel doesn’t like this. She doesn’t like it one bit.

“I, I don’t want to be late to bio.” He’s shifting nervously, uncomfortable for a reason Marin can’t quite figure out. She wonders if it has anything to do with the way the popular kids are eyeing him, if she should be worried about more than just the grief he’s not letting himself feel.

“I’ll write you a note.”

“Um, yeah. Yeah, okay.”

 

* * *

 

Jefferson’s team had gone out yesterday afternoon to “get to know the territory” and hadn’t come back. None of the five had answered their cell phones any one of the thirty-two times Chris had called them. Their vehicles haven’t been located. Their bags of weaponry and munitions are conspicuously absent from their rooms at the local motel. Their clothing and other belongings are not.

“They’re dead.” Chris declares, watching the expressions of his men at the news. None of them look surprised. They can see the signs just as clearly as he can. “Well, ‘missing’, I suppose. Until we have bodies.”

“You think the wolves took them?”

Well, that’s a stupid question. What the hell would werewolves do with five hunters? They wouldn’t need more than one if they were after information. No, the Hale pack didn’t do this. Or, well, they didn’t _plan_ this.

“I think they wanted to go out and take down a werewolf before the rest of us got started so they could win some ‘glory’ for the Arwell family. And the werewolves took them down instead.” Chris sighs, feeling the anger begin to build. Jefferson Arwell had been a decent hunter, if overeager and way too caught up on foolish notions of glory, and he’d been _young_. Only twenty-two. A fiancée back in Georgia, waiting for him to come home and marry her like he’d promised. And now he’ll never make good on that promise. Because Chris had called him to war in a fit of hurt and anger, because he hadn’t waited for the rest of them to formulate a plan of attack, because five men versus four werewolves are terrible odds and he hadn’t cared.

Shit. People are dying now. His people, maybe some of theirs. Probably not though. Not yet; werewolves are strong and fast and Derek Hale isn’t stupid. Even if the Arwells had used wolfsbane, Derek’s been shot before and is still walking around; he knows how to treat the poison before it kills him or one of his pack. But Allison, Allison isn’t a wolf; she’s human. She doesn’t heal like they do. Wolfsbane or no, cure or not, if she gets shot, she’s likely to die. And if she does, just like Jefferson Arwell, if will be Chris’s fault.

He’s making killers out of children, human and wolf alike. And damned if that doesn’t make him the monster in this equation. And he hates it, but it’s too late to stop it now. They’d shed innocent blood when they killed Isaac Lahey’s father, and they’d killed five hunters. Even if Chris wanted to renege the Argent call to war, even if he tried to end things before they spiraled even further out of control, the Arwells would call a blood debt of their own.

Whatever Derek’s pack had been when Chris had made that stupid call, they’re killers now. Rabid dogs lashing out. They’re dangerous and violent and likely only to grow more so with each passing of the moon as Derek inevitably grows out his pack until all that’s left of Beacon Hills is either werewolf or dead.

This is what he has made of them, and what they have made of him.

_Nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent._

Let the hunt begin.


End file.
